And in Their Triumph Die
by itsAmmers
Summary: The Hogwarts Four band together to build the first school of witchcraft and wizardry. Their trials and tribulations will forge powerful friendships, but eventually unravel in tragedy. Rated M for violence, language, sexual content.
1. Burning

_Author's Note: (Previously titled "The Founding") This is a story about the Hogwarts Four: Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. It is a story of how they met, of their friendship, their great achievements with the school, and what eventually tore them apart. I have done and will continue to do my very best to keep this as accurate to J. K. Rowling's canon and to history as possible, though of course my own touch is added to hopefully make this a fun and interesting story for you, dear readers! The first chapter is somewhat mellow, but I hope you will continue reading and see where the story goes!_

_This is rated R for violence, language, sexual content, and dark themes. I expect to run the gambit._

_Original story and characters are (c) to me, but everything Harry Potter-related of course belongs to the brilliant JKR._

* * *

><p><strong>AND IN THEIR TRIUMPH DIE<strong>

**chapter one  
>BURNING<strong>

**Britain, 1009 AD.**

It was a grey day. An even layer of grey clouds masked the sky, promising rain all day and yet failing to deliver on those threats. The ground was plenty wet already. The village was a mire of mud and muck. Squelching noises followed the stout draft horses as they walked, pulling their large hooves out of the mud and dragging their carts behind them. Peasants scuffled about, drawing their dirty cloaks snugly around their shoulders to fight away the gloom of the day.

But there was an energy about the village on this day that wasn't present every day. Peasants and tradesmen and nobles alike were all walking in the same direction, gathering in the town square. Salazar followed the trickle of people on his grey palfrey. He was finely dressed under his ermine-lined travelling cloak, sporting a leather jerkin, decoratively embossed, over emerald velvet. His horse was taller and sleeker than the shaggy ponies of the village. What's more, he was not a native of this village, a fact that earned him one or two curious looks from the locals.

Salazar and his palfrey walked slowly down a little road, lined with shabby little houses and shops. The air smelled of wet earth, horses, and nightsoil. He rounded a corner and found himself in the town square, where the village's inhabitants were gathering. At the center of the square was a post surrounded by logs and scrap wood….waiting for a victim. The crowd was quiet, curious, eager. If they spoke, they spoke in hushed whispers to one another, discussing rumors, expectations, accusations….

Salazar halted his mount at the edge of the crowd. There were other nobles present, easily identifiable by their wardrobe and cleanliness. Salazar waited with the rest, silent. The wait wasn't long. Soon there came a wooden cart with a single prisoner riding in the back: a woman—a _girl_—in a simple shift. She appeared to Salazar to be perhaps seventeen. She might have been mildly pretty at some point, but now she was dirty, her dark hair was straggly, and her face was tearstained. When her captors pulled her from the cart, she looked terrified. But she was a small girl, and they were men, and she could not fight them. They dragged the girl through the crowd, which parted to let them pass, but suddenly became noisy. They shouted at the girl…many things—curses, prayers—but one word was more audible than others.

_Witch._

Salazar's grey eyes followed the girl as she was dragged to the pyre. They shoved her back against the post and tied her hands behind it. She was trembling, tears gleaming on her face. The shouts of the crowd assaulted her as surely as the fire would, and her wide eyes darted back and forth across the angry mob.

"Witch! Burn her! Repent!" they cried. The girl accused of witchery cried and begged for her life, but Salazar couldn't hear her words over the shouts of the villagers.

The fire came. A burly man approached the pyre with a flaming torch. His gait was confident and determined, deaf to the girl's pleas. Even the flame looked muted in the dim gloom of this village, dancing with a pale, sickly yellow hue. The girl began sobbing in earnest now, pitiful and helpless on the pyre. Salazar's gaze raked the mob, but saw no other crying faces. It appeared the girl had no family, no friends here…perhaps they could not bear to witness this execution. Or perhaps they had abandoned her upon learning that she was a witch. An "abomination."

A sudden disturbance in the crowd brought his gaze back to the pyre. The burly man was holding an extinguished torch. Salazar's brow tightened. A flint was brought, and in a moment the torch was blazing again. But as he lowered it towards the waiting wood once more, the flames blew out with a _woosh_.

Salazar sat back in his saddle. So. She _was _a witch.

The girl watched with wide eyes, daring to hope. The crowd began to murmur anxiously. Surely this was sorcery! Their admonitions grew even louder and more aggressive, cursing her, promising her a swift journey to hell. Some screamed and backed away, fearful of being cursed by the witch.

The torch was lit again, and snuffed out once more. Salazar was sure this was not a conscious bit of magic. The witch was making this happen out of sheer panic. Once more, the torch was lit and extinguished. The crowd was growing more and more insistent, eager to see this evil-doer made to pay for her sins.

At last, more torches were brought to do the job correctly. Whatever talents or capabilities this young witch may or may not have, her power did not save her from multiple attackers. The kindling caught fire, and spread quickly over the oiled wood. Within moments, the fire crept up to the girl's dirty bare feet. She drew back against the post as tightly as she could, but soon the flames were licking up her feet, her ankles, her knees.

And she was screaming. It was a horrible sound, full of agony….the kind of pain that Salazar couldn't begin to imagine. He watched in silence. The musty smell of mud was joined with the odor of smoke and burning flesh. Salazar clenched his jaw. It could easily be _him_ burning at the stake…the difference being that he would have destroyed the entire town square before they burned him.

Then, as the flames reached the girl's knees, eating away at her, she quieted. Her wide, dark eyes were skyward, and she seemed to calm…. At first Salazar thought she had simply gone into shock, but something in her eyes told him that she was conscious and aware. Brow furrowed, Salazar scanned the jeering crowd.

It took a moment, but then he found the answer. One man in the midst of the mob was not yelling and cursing and cheering. He had a square jaw and soft features, and a strong brow. He had dark auburn hair with wavy curls, and was reasonably handsome, close to Salazar's own age. He came from some money; that was obvious by what little of his clothing Salazar could see through the crowd. The shoulders of his black cloak were covered in a fine white and grey fur, thick and warm against his neck. He stood with his eyes locked on the burning girl, his lips moving subtly, steadily. Salazar recognized a spell in progress when he saw one. This wizard was concentrating hard to spare the girl the agony of the fire.

Salazar watched as the fire consumed the pyre and the poor soul trapped with it. Soon orange flames were blazing, and all evidence of a human victim was gone. Since the stranger's spell had begun, the girl had been quiet...even peaceful. The spell had been a great mercy, and Salazar wondered who the stranger was. Was he kin to the witch? Was he a friend? A lover? Or just a kind-hearted wanderer? He clearly had command of his powers. The witch had extinguished the torches by accident, but the stranger had controlled a strong spell without wand work. Salazar's own wand was tucked into his high boot, away from Muggle eyes.

The crowd began to dissipate once the girl was dead. Salazar watched them in disgust. They thought they had burned an abomination, but the real abomination was walking free to return to their shops, their manses, their dirty little hovels. The dead girl at the stake had been given a gift, and the Muggles, unable to share in it, had taken her life. It was a scenario that was all too common. It seemed every half a century or so, persecution of witches and wizards went into fashion, and then went out of fashion again….

The wizard who had cast the spell was one of the last to leave. When he finally turned to be on his way, he noticed Salazar watching him and caught his eye. For the briefest of moments, their gazes were locked. Salazar was able to grasp just a fraction of information when the eye contact was made, but the wizard quickly turned and left the square in a hurry. All Salazar had time to discern was that the wizard was wary of being caught at his craft.

But as the wizard turned, Salazar glimpsed something else: a flash of silver and scarlet at his hip. The wizard's gloved hand was resting on the hilt of a gleaming sword, one that Salazar recognized by rumor.

Well, at least this day was going to prove much more fortunate for Salazar than for the witch girl.

Salazar pressed his thighs to his horse's flanks, nudging it into motion again. The grey palfrey moved forward so that Salazar could watch the other wizard walk away down the street, away from the square. When he turned out of sight, Salazar moved forward and followed.

He came to a small, grubby inn and dismounted, handing the reins over to a stableboy. Salazar flicked a coin into the boy's palm and went inside. It was small and cramped, lit by torches in sconces all along the walls. Wooden tables and benches were crowded together. The stale smell of dirt and beer and some sort of stew reached his nose. But he wasn't here for beer. His clear eyes scanned the room, which presently hosted about eight Muggle men. And one wizard.

He was seated near the back, alone, cradling a stein of beer between his hands. He appeared to be making an effort not to be seen, but Salazar walked right over to him. When his shadow fell upon the table, dancing in the torchlight, the stranger looked up. Up close, Salazar now saw that he had dark blue eyes, almost grey, like his own. He wore dark clothing, dark leathers and rich reds. The fur at the neck of his cloak made his shoulders look very broad. He had a hard brow, and didn't look intimidated in the least, only curious.

"Is there something I can do for you, friend?" he asked.

Salazar studied the wizard. "Did you know the girl? Or just pity her?" he asked.

The wizard with the auburn hair was silent for a moment, considering his answer carefully. "I pity anyone forced to die so horribly."

"If you had been noticed, they would have tied you to the stake next to her."

Another beat of silence. Then the wizard gestured to the chair across from him. Salazar took the offered seat as the wizard waved for another beer. "Are you here to expose me?" he asked.

"That would hardly be in my own interest."

"Good. I wouldn't want to regret buying that beer."

The innkeeper arrived and set a pewter mug in front of Salazar, then returned to his post in silence. Salazar tried the beer. It was watery and stale.

The other wizard spoke again. "What's your name?"

"Salazar Slytherin. And unless I am mistaken, you are Lord Godric Gryffindor."

The wizard smiled and offered his hand, and Salazar shook it. "I am. I recognize your name as well. The Slytherins are an old family, am I right?"

"We are," was all Salazar said, and he took another swig of the piss-poor beer.

"What brings you all the way out here?" asked Godric.

"I could as you the same thing," said Salazar, letting his grey eyes meet Godric's once more. "I confess…that I was looking for you."

"For me?"

"I wanted to meet the duelist everyone's been talking about." Salazar offered a congenial grin, and Godric shifted his gaze down…bashful, maybe?

"Ah…even the Slytherins have heard of me, have they?" he asked with a smile.

Salazar pushed his stein of beer to the side, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward a little and lowering his voice. "It's a rare wizard that's as learned as you and I. I thought it worthwhile to meet someone as…accomplished." He paused. He'd been looking fort his man for some time now…He'd devoted a great deal of time to studying the old families, but it was difficult. So little was written down, so little knowledge passed between wizards. "In the past few months I've encountered nothing but amateur witches and wizards…they don't even know how to control their abilities. Like the girl at the pyre."

Godric nodded thoughtfully and finished off his drink. "I admit it's good to talk to another wizard. I've been on the road for the past month and I've noticed the same."

"Was this place your destination?"

"Oh no, I was just passing through…." Godric hesitated, and then leaned forward in his seat as well. "Have you heard of the Galt Brothers?"

Salazar narrowed his eyes in thought. Yes, he knew the name…it was passing through the magical community in wary whispers….users of Dark Magic. He held Godric's gaze steadily. "You're going after them?"

Godric nodded his auburn head. "They've been terrorizing villages here in the west. I've just heard a rumor that they were in Wales. There's a witch there by the name of Hufflepuff, who works in a village of wizards and Muggles. I've heard they've had trouble with the Galts."

So Godric was looking for a fight. He lived up to his reputation. Salazar found himself intensely curious to see the Lord Gryffindor at work, and he also found himself curious about the Galts. It'd been quite a few decades since the last prominent Dark Wizard…the Dark Arts seemed to be becoming more and more pronounced, separating from the old magic ways…. "So you mean to take them on yourself?" asked Salazar. As they spoke, he glanced around to make sure they weren't being overheard.

Godric shrugged. "They've been attacking innocent bystanders…someone should do something, shouldn't they?"

Salazar sat back, looking at the men seated around them. Some were starting to give them furtive glances. Not doubt they stood out because of their apparel, which was much finder than the shabby tunics worn by the villagers. And when he caught their gaze, he knew they were suspicious…he knew where their train of thought was going.

"May I suggest we continue this conversation elsewhere? I believe we've worn out our welcome," he said with an easy smile. Godric looked around them as well, and seemed to sense the discomfort. He nodded and placed some coins on the wooden table, standing up. The grubby men in the inn watched them as they slipped outside, walking towards the stables. They told the stableboys which horses to retrieve, and the lads went scurrying.

Godric turned his gaze to Salazar, studying him with his dark blue eyes. "Why don't you come to Wales with me? You said yourself, there are so few learned wizards out there…at least come with me to meet this Helga Hufflepuff. I've heard she's quite talented."

"It'd be my pleasure," said Salazar eagerly. They could learn much from each other, and he was curious about this Welsh witch. Godric grinned, taking the reins of his sorrel red horse as it was brought to him.

"Excellent. It'll be a nice change from travelling alone."

Salazar's grey horse was brought to him by a freckly-faced boy. Salazar mounted his palfrey, and Godric did the same before setting out at a swift trot. Salazar followed, and they made their way through the small, muddy streets. As they passed the town square, Salazar gave one last look to the smoldering ruins of the pyre, thinking if only the witch had been taught to use her gifts…if only she had learned, she could have saved herself.

They put the gloomy village to their backs and soon their horses' hooves found grass again. They crested a hill and before them was a rolling expanse of green countryside, dotted with limestone.

"I know a river close to the boarder we can Apparate to," said Godric, dismounting from his saddle now that they were out of view of the town behind them. Salazar did the same, gripping his horse's reins.

"I no know place closer," said Salazar, content to follow Godric's lead. Godric gripped his own horse's reins and held out a hand. Salazar gripped his wrist, holding tight.

"Ready?"

Salazar nodded.

Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin Disapparated, vanishing from the hill, horses and all.


	2. Penfryn

**AND IN THEIR TRIUMPH DIE**

**chapter two  
><strong>**PENFRYN**

With a rush, Godric and Salazar appeared on the grassy banks of a small river. Godric found his feet, but the horses both shied and shrieked in alarm at the Apparition. Godric's horse never liked Apparating, and he avoided putting the beast through the ordeal…but when one didn't know an exact location to Apparate to, horses were the best bet. Beside him, Salazar gave a sturdy pull on his horse's reins, making it stand still. Godric patted his stallion's broad neck until it calmed.

"I know, I know," he chuckled softly. The horse gave an indignant snort, nostrils flaring.

Yellow evening sunlight was glittering on the little river. It gurgled along in front of them, banked by green grass so thick it flopped over on itself in fluffy little mounds. Beyond the river was a sparse wood.

Godric and Salazar mounted their horses once more, and urged them towards the river. The horses splashed into the water, wading in until the water reached their rider's knees. But the horses were steady and true, and the river was calm, and after a moment they were climbing out on the opposite bank. They found an easy trot, weaving through the short, scrubby trees. The land was lush and green, and the air was a fresh change from the sad, muddy little town they had just left. For a moment, Godric felt a pang of guilt for enjoying the pleasantry of an evening in the countryside; an image of the burning girl crept into his mind, her dirty face streaked with tears….

_You did what you could, _Godric told himself forcibly. _You spared her the pain._ He banished the girl from his mind. He couldn't have saved her life, there surrounded by strangers…but he could continue to do his part, to not waste the life he was blessed to retain. These Galts could not be left to terrorize innocent people. Godric felt confident, and as eager as his stallion, chomping at its bit. He would put them in their place.

His new companion had been a pleasant surprise. After but a moment of conversation with Salazar, Godric felt comfortable assuming he was a skilled wizard. He had to be educated, coming from an old family like the Slytherins. Godric's own mother and father had passed their skills down to him, and a healthy competition with his younger brother Gaeralt gave him plenty of practice in the art of dueling. At the very least, it made him quick on his feet, always ready for a prank or sneak-attack from Gaerry….

Godric and Salazar were silent until the sun was low and it was time to discuss where they wished to make camp. They settled at the edge of the little wood, and Salazar produced a small pit of flames to keep them warm. They shared what provisions they had to eat: Salazar had acquired some fresh bread from a peasant woman in the morning, and Godric had salted meats that were soon cooking themselves, suspended magically over their fire.

"How long have you been on the road?" asked Salazar as they ate.

"A few weeks," replied Godric, taking an offered heel of bread and thanking his companion. "I tracked the Galts to the coast, but then they veered into the west." He chewed his meat and looked over at Salazar. They were close in age…the Lord Slytherin had clear eyes and a square jaw, and sandy hair. Had this wizard truly crossed the country in search of him?

"What made you seek me out?"

Salazar chewed thoughtfully, silent for a few moments before deciding on his answer. "I've been studying the old families for some time now…and you've earned a bit of a reputation. I'd never found anyone who knew as much magic as my father and myself…"

Godric felt a little flush of satisfaction…he'd been in duels before, and it seemed his actions had made some sort of a difference, at least. If people were talking about it in the east… "Is your father living?"

"He is," was all Salazar said. "And yours?"

"No, mother and father have both passed."

Salazar tilted his head. "Are you not married, then?"

"No, my brother Gaeralt holds the estate in my absence," Godric said. "And what of yourself? Are you the eldest?"

"Yes, but…my father and I aren't seeing eye to eye at the moment. No wife, which would upset my mother if she were alive."

Godric gave a soft laugh. "Mine would be disappointed as well." He finished his meal and leaned back against his saddle. His horse was grazing not far off, glad to be out of its tack. Godric passed a sack of wine across to Salazar, who was twirling his wand between his fingers absent-mindedly, but paused to take the offered wine.

Godric nodded towards the wand. "What do you carry?"

Salazar glanced at his wand, then, Godric. "Ah—Hawthorn. Dragon heartstring core. Yourself?"

Godric pulled his wand from his sleeve, cradling it in his hand. "Ebony, phoenix feather core…an Ollivander's of course."

"Of course," agreed Salazar. He raised his brow and held out a hand. "May I?"

Godric hesitated for just an instant, but passed his wand to his new companion, who traded his wand in turn…maybe just out of politeness. Salazar studied the ebony wand with interest, cradling the pommel. "This has a nice balance," he remarked. "I hear ebony makes for good combat."

"It's certainly done me well so far," said Godric, examining Salazar's hawthorn. It was more slender than Godric's, and lighter. Very finely made, as all Ollivander wands were, but naturally it didn't feel the same as Godric's own. He suspected he would be clumsy if ever forced to use a wand like this hawthorn. No doubt Salazar felt the same, as most wizards and witches were acutely attached to the balance and energy of their own wand. Godric's had been well worth the journey to the Ollivanders' shop.

Salazar returned the ebony wand and earnestly said, "Thank you." Godric returned Salazar's hawthorn before slipping his own into his tall boot for safekeeping. Salazar gave his an elegant little twirl between his fingers and did the same.

"What practices do you prefer?" Godric asked curiously.

They quickly found themselves in a prolonged conversation, discussing their favorite practices and theories. Salazar confessed a keen interest in the fundamentals of alchemy and magical intent—what types of energy and intentions produce what kinds of magic. They discussed combative magic and transfiguration, each sharing experiences and theories. Salazar was keen to hear Godric's strategies and use of magic in combat, and Godric was fascinated to learn that Salazar was a Parselmouth and quite good at transfiguration. Soon it was quite late, and both were forced to resign to sleep in preparation for the morrow's travels. Their horses stood nearby and Salazar's fire crackled steadily through the night. Godric was surprised that he seemed to sleep a little easier now that he had a travelling companion, especially one of like mind to him.

Morning found them horseback once more, trotting steadily up and down the rolling green hills of the Welsh countryside. Before noon, clouds rolled in and a light, steady rain began to fall. Godric pulled his cloak around him tighter and pressed on. They were fortunate, and by midday the clouds had yielded to a bright, sunny sky. Once they had dried, they felt the weather was quite perfect—the sun warmed their faces, though the air was pleasantly cool. They passed through a Muggle town, but none knew the name Helga Hufflepuff, so they continued on their way. When evening crept upon them, they came upon another town. Grateful for the opportunity to sleep in an inn instead of on the ground, Godric and Salazar approached.

But Godric became uncomfortable almost immediately. The town was strangely quiet, and for one brief moment he thought it might be deserted until he spotted a peasant woman. She looked at him warily before moving inside her house. Godric frowned and looked about. The few people who _were _outside were all giving them hard looks, nervous looks. Most moved quietly away from the road. Godric looked at Salazar, who was staring at the people.

"They're afraid," said Salazar knowingly. "They think we've come to hurt them."

Godric couldn't argue with this assessment, just judging by the way the villagers were eyeing them. He pressed his heels to his horse and urged it into a trot. They found a small inn and hitched their horses at a post before entering.

It was quiet, and only a few lanterns were lit inside. There didn't appear to be many guests, just three men speaking to the owner at the bar. They immediately stopped talking when they heard Godric and Salazar enter, and looked over their shoulders warily.

The owner spoke to them in Welsh, and Godric asked if he had any English.

"Aye, an' what's an Englishman doin' 'round here?" he asked defensively. His accent was thick, but he was understood.

Godric frowned at this less-than-welcoming reception. Normally the sight of a lord would please an innkeeper, for the likes and Godric and Salazar clearly had coin to spend.

"Just looking for bed for the night and nothing more."

"We're closed," said the owner. "We're not open t' no strangers at t'is time."

"If coin is the issue, I assure you it isn't," said Godric calmly, reaching into his cloak for a fistful of currency. Salazar remained silent, eyes focused keenly in the owner.

But the owner shook his head quickly, and one of the men at the bar said in a rough English, "T'e last foreigner dat came t'rough here made us right sorry for eht."

Suddenly Godric's interest peaked. "Thieves?" he asked in an off-hand way. The man shook his head.

"Worse 'in any t'ief I ever saw. Took our coin, aye, but dat's not all."

The owner leaned forward over the counter. "Aye, an' we wont be havin' no foreigners under our roof tonight."

Godric looked around the dimly-lit room. Now that he was looking for it, he saw the signs…the left side of the bar was splintered as though a great boulder had been shot through it. The railing of the wooden stairs looked newer than the steps themselves…freshly repaired. Salazar nudged him with an elbow as he turned to leave.

"We're sorry to trouble you," said Godric, and he followed.

Once outside, Salazar glanced around to be sure they weren't overheard. "They've been attacked. Two townsmen and one woman were murdered," said Salazar. Godric frowned again.

"How do you know that?"

"I could see it," said Salazar. "In their eyes. They remembered the men and the woman…and they were terrified when they saw us."

Godric blinked, surprised. "You're a _Legilimens_?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes, I began studying it as a child," said Salazar. He waved a hand to dismiss the subject. "But Godric, they don't understand what they saw, because what they saw was _magic_. Dark magic, I'm sure."

Godric had just enough time to be impressed with Salazar, as he himself had tried once or twice to practice the field of Legillimency and Occlumency with his younger brother. They were both rubbish at it, and usually succumbed to fits of laughter at the silly thoughts they were trying to silently convey to one another. But he pushed his mind back to the topic at hand. Clearly the Galts had come through this way. But why here? Why a small town without substantial wealth to attract them?

But a churning feeling in his stomach told him that the Galt's didn't come here for wordly goods. They came here because this was a Muggle village. In his mind, he saw a grimy, gaunt young man laughing, wand pointed at a terrified Muggle woman, helpless against magic….

"Let's go. We obviously wont find lodging here," said Godric. He mounted his sorrel horse once more and was so angry at the thought of the Galts that he didn't even mind the fact that they'd be sleeping on the ground again tonight.

As they passed through the town, they saw one or two houses that looked like they had been attacked. They had been recently repaired, but the newness of the repairs made the damage obvious. Godric gave his horse a light kick and set off at a canter, leaving the town behind them.

They were quick to find a good place to camp for the night, and give their horses a rest. They split their rations once more, and this time Salazar shared a skin of wine.

"Are Muggles the Galt's target?" asked Salazar, using his wand to turn the meat over the fire.

"It seems that way," said Godric. "I think they just generally enjoy causing trouble…" He'd met sorts like the Galts before; wizards who thought themselves profoundly superior to Muggles because of their capabilities…wizards who found great amusement in showing off their superiority to helpless Muggles, often in the cruelest of ways. He'd heard of Muggle men with the same mindset…men who thought themselves better than others, better than women, men who liked to exercise their power over such….

Salazar gave a small huff. "That's a waste of magic."

Godric glanced at him, then took a swig of wine. It was a sour red, and quite suited his mood. "It's cruel, is what it is."

Salazar passed Godric his share of the food. "Do you have many Muggle friends?" he asked curiously.

"A few…mostly those that live in the village by our lands," said Godric. The Hollow was a quiet little town, and dear to Godric's heart. The Gryffindors were well-respected by its inhabitants, but Godric would have to confess he didn't know whether or not the Muggles were fully aware of the Gryffindor family's magical talents. Some regions were more open to magic than others, especially where there had been a stronger Gaelic and Pict presence in centuries past. Godric suspected the deeper into Wales they travelled, the more they might see of the old Druid influence.

"Do you?"

"No," admitted Salazar. "We keep to ourselves, mostly. The Muggles do what they do, we do what we do."

"Sounds peaceful enough," said Godric, and Salazar nodded.

"Oh it is, mostly. We don't let on what we are, lest we meet the stake."

The burning girl's face flashed in Godric's mind, skin burning away from her jaw and cheekbones, charred and bloody…and he saw the Muggles jeering at her demise….he banished the thought with a heavy sigh.

The following morning was bright and breezy, unusually warm for the autumn. Godric and Salazar passed over the grassy hills and through little thickets. There was no sign of the Galts or their handiwork, just blue skies and green grass, and in the afternoon they came across a pasture fenced with limestone rocks. A herd of shaggy sheep were happily grazing, and one or two lifted their horned heads to look at the two wizards as they passed along the rock wall. They followed it up a hill and saw before them a village quite different from the one they had recently left. There were people and livestock here, enjoying the sunshine and moving about their business. Vendors and shops were open.

They rode down the hill and towards the village. These villagers didn't seem afraid of them, and most looked at them with interest. Godric paused by an old weaving woman, telling her they were in search of a woman called Helga Hufflepuff.

The old woman grinned at them, her eyes crinkling. "Yeh've come to t'e right place, m'lord," she said, her Gaelic accent apparent. She pointed a knobby finger down the main road. "In t'e big house. She makes me potions for me joints, bless 'er."

That was more than a pleasant surprise to Godric. He was sure this woman was a Muggle, but this town seemed more than happy to have a witch in their midst.

Grinning at Salazar, the two young men eagerly set off down the lane. Sure enough, at the far edge of the town there was a large wooden house, set just a little apart from the other houses. There were a few children in the yard playing a game with small river stones with a house elf. They looked up interestedly at the strangers, and one boy hopped up and ran inside. Godric could just see the corner of what promised to be an impressive garden on the other side of the house. He and Salazar dismounted, and were about to walk to the front door when it opened again.

A woman close to their age appeared in the doorway, the little boy close by. She was dressed in robes of yellow, and her hair was the color of honey. She was plump in figure, but she had a pretty face and she smiled brightly at them.

"Welcome, my lords," she said, bowing her head to them. If she was Welsh, her English was perfect.

Godric bowed. "Thank you, my lady. You must be Helga Hufflepuff."

"I am," she said brightly. "But I am no lady, just Helga. Whom do I have the honor of meeting?"

"I am Lord Godric Gryffindor of Wiltshire, and this is Lord Salazar Slytherin, of Norfolk."

Helga shook hands warmly with each of them, smiling. "Lords Gryffindor and Slytherin!" she said, obviously recognizing the names. "I daresay we have need of learned wizards. Welcome! Welcome to Penfryn."

"Are these children yours?" Salazar asked. The three children by the door looked to be of varying ages, though all quite young.

Helga laughed gently. "In a way, they are….this is a home for children—for all children who need it. Most are children whose Muggle parents rejected them when their powers started to show…You'll meet them. But please, come inside and have some refreshment! You can let your horses loose, if you wish."

But before they could make a move, there was the clamor of hooves. A brown horse came racing towards them, carrying a young boy with bright blue eyes. He was sun-kissed from hours of being outside, with slightly-tanned skin and golden hair. He looked to be about ten or twelve, of average size for his age. The boy pulled his horse to a sudden stop.

"Aunt Helga-!" he started, but he stopped short upon seeing Godric and Salazar, looking at them with keen interest. "Who are they?"

"These are the Lords Gryffindor and Slytherin," said Helga. "Mind your manners, greet them properly."

The boy hopped off of his quick little horse, breathless, and gave a hasty bow.

"This is Evander," said Helga with a smile. "And that's his sister, Elyssa." She pointed to a young girl by the house. She, too, had bright blue eyes and golden hair, and she smiled sweetly.

Formalities finished, Evander glanced between Godric and Salazar and Helga, apparently torn between his eagerness to tell Helga what he had to say and his excitement upon meeting two wizard lords. He rushed towards Helga.

"Aunt Helga, I found one of the Galts' camps!" he declared.

Godric and Salazar raised their brow in surprise. Helga too, looked shocked.

"Evander, what were you _doing_, going to look for the Galts all on your own?" she demanded. "And what if you'd have found them?"

Evander frowned defensively. "I didn't get too close, I swear…and it was an old camp, it hadn't been used."

Godric found himself smiling. "You want to find the Galts, do you?"

Evander looked back at him. "Well someone needs to! …My lord," he added, trying to remember his manners.

"That's exactly why I'm here," said Godric. Beside him, Salazar was smiling in languid amusement.

Helga ushered them into the house. It was open and spacious, and the kitchen was astir with activity. It seemed that there was a great deal of cooking underway, and potion-brewing as well. House elves scurried back and forth, tending to it all. Godric inhaled the welcoming aroma of stew and lamb and potatoes, and was suddenly hungry. Helga strode over to check on the progress of the meals.

"Oh, it smells good…" she said to the house elves. Upon inspecting everything, she grinned at them. "It's perfect, dears!"

Salazar passed his cloak to a small elf who had come to welcome them, and the elf offered to take Godric's as well, and he obliged. Helga gestured for them to sit at a large table of scrubbed wood. Another house elf scurried over with a decanter of wine.

"Thank you, Trinket," said Helga, pouring a cup each for Salazar, Godric, and herself. Evander sat by Helga and his sister appeared beside him, elbows on the table as she leaned in to hear the conversation. Evander told them how he went out riding and ventured into the woods, and he happened across the remains of an old campfire.

Salazar asked, "Do the Galts come to this village?"

Helga sighed, raising her brow. "They have tried…my elves and I have managed to deter them. But they've been raiding through the area. I suspect once they saw there was a witch living here in Penfryn, they decided to steer clear. They target Muggle villages. That's how my poor Quinn came to us…He's Muggle-born and...well…." Her blue eyes drifted to the window, outside of which some of the younger children were playing.

Godric clenched his jaw and frowned. It was as he suspected. He was glad that after weeks and weeks of following rumors, he had a definite trail and a definite goal. These wizards killed for sport, and he would out a stop to it.

Evander was looking at him with his bright eyes. "Are you really Godric Gryffindor?"

Godric looked up and offered a smile. "Last I checked…" Evander's eyes widened and he leaned forward.

"You won the Devon Dueling Tournament!"

Godric gave a small laugh, surprised at the boy's interest. "Ah, yes…I did."

"Have you ever been in a real fight?"

Helga stepped in. "All right, Evander, don't pester our guest," she said with a smile.

Soon it was time for dinner, and Helga insisted that Godric and Salazar stay seated and enjoy a good meal. The children filed in to crowd around the table—six in all. The older children and the house elves helped Helga serve the food. Then Godric was surprised to see that even the house elves sat at the table with the children. To his left, he saw that Salazar was even more surprised. He wore a perplexed frown, but if he was insulted by the gesture, he kept it to himself. One bite of Helga's cooking was enough to make them forget their surprise and curiosity. Godric wasn't sure if he'd _ever _had a better meal, and Salazar seemed to be enjoying himself as well. They had a hearty lamb stew and fresh, warm bread, and washed it all down with a rich ale.

They met all of the children of Penfryn. There was Evander and Elyssa Edgebrook, a bold brother and a sweet sister ages twelve and eleven. Their Muggle parents had disowned them. There was Quinn Walsh, a boy of thirteen with brown hair and freckles, whom Helga said was very smart. There was a shy girl named Shireen Walwyn, disowned by her Muggle father. There was a quiet boy named Faolan Burke, who was an orphan, and a very pretty thirteen-year-old girl with bright eyes and dark hair, named Leona Fairwyn. She was a runaway. Last, but not least to Helga, were the house elves Trinket, Smiles, Bump and Thump, and Tallie.

After dinner, Helga was visited by a Muggle woman. Helga hopped to her feet to retrieve a potion meant to help the woman's husband with his bad knee. Godric was pleasantly surprised by the gracious interaction, and thought of how nice it would be to live in a town like this, where Muggles and magicfolk lived side by side...

The evening was topped off with four magnificent apple pies, and Godric thought he was full enough to burst. Even Salazar, whom Godric suspected wasn't entirely comfortable around all of the children and house elves, seemed quite content. The children were eager to talk to their guests, and Godric realized they each had their own wand. Helga had made the journey to London so that the children may find their wands in Ollivander's shop, if they did not already have one of their own when they came to her. Godric found himself quite interested in hearing about what the children knew about magic, and what their talents were. Once the children were sent to upstairs to bed, Helga told them how clever Faolan was, how intelligent and sweet Quinn was, that Shireen already showed an propensity for herbology and soon Elyssa would be transfiguring anything she set her mind to. And Helga told them how brave Evander was, and how devoted he was to protecting his sister; she told them how fiercely talented and independent Leona was.

Godric had rarely felt so welcomed and so instantly at home in a place he barely knew. He and Salazar discussed with interest what Helga had done as far as mentoring the young witches and wizards. They were lucky—they had someone to look over them, someone to teach them to use their talents. So many young witches and wizards were wasted without guidance.

When their tongues were tired, Helga insisted that Godric and Salazar stay the night. She looked at Godric with her kind eyes, concerned.

"Do you really mean to meet the Galt brothers in combat?" she asked quietly.

"I do," said Godric. "I'll follow your young Evander's lead in the morning."

Helga was quiet for a moment, cradling a mug of tea between her hands. "I would go with you," she said quietly, "But I am needed here."

"You shouldn't leave the children," said Godric. "I always anticipated tracking them on my own."

"I'm going with you," said Salazar, speaking up for the first time in the past few moments. Godric turned to look at him. Salazar met his gaze steadily, his clear eyes earnest.

"I do not ask you to," said Godric. This had always been his plan, but Salazar had no obligation.

"I know," Salazar replied. "But I'll go with you, Godric."


	3. A Place for Crimes

**AND IN THEIR TRIUMPH DIE**

**chapter three  
><strong>**A PLACE FOR CRIMES**

The morning brought with it a cool mist, which hung low over the grass and made the earth wet. Salazar, Godric, and Helga were up with the sun, and she helped them pack provisions. Salazar fastened his cloak tightly, adjusting the silver snake broach at his left shoulder. He felt refreshed after Helga's hospitality and the comfort of her home. She had insisted that they eat a hearty breakfast before setting out, and Salazar was feeling full and content. The oldest girl in the house, Leona, had risen early to help Helga, and she stood watching from the doorway.

"Are you sure about this?" Helga asked anxiously, glancing between them. "These Galts…they have no scruples."

Godric offered her an easy grin, one corner of his mouth pulling up a little higher than the other. "Don't worry. I know exactly what I'm doing."

They both knew what they were getting into, they both understood the risks. When he first left his home, his father screaming at his back, Salazar would never have guessed he would end up hunting a pair of Dark wizards alongside a member of the Gryffindor family. And yet now that he was here, he _wanted_ to go. Part of it was curiosity…it'd been quite a few years since there had been any blatant use of Dark magic and blatant attacks by wizards on Muggles. It was the sort of thing that only encouraged what Salazar and Godric had witnessed in the dreary town where they had met. It was a waste of magical talent. It was senseless, and it was undeniably wrong. Salazar had recognized the determination that was driving Godric in this hunt, but after meeting Helga and her children and hearing first hand what the Galts were capable of, Godric was more driven than ever.

Salazar had to admit, his determination was somewhat infectious.

They thanked Helga for her hospitality, and at her urging, promised to return when they had finished with the Galts. Then they set out, Godric spurring his horse into a quick canter. Salazar nodded a farewell to Helga and Leona, and then turned his grey steed to hurry off after Godric.

It was a quiet morning. The thumping of their horses' hooves on the damp ground and the twittering of birds was the only sound. As the morning drew on, the mist around them became bright gold with sunlight. Salazar and Godric slowed to a walk when the village was out of sight behind them. Ahead of them, they could just make out a treeline.

Salazar drew his horse closer to Godric's, studying his companion. His eyes were drawn to the silver sword hilt at Godric's hip.

"Have you ever killed a man before?"

Godric looked up to meet his gaze. "Yes…When I was fourteen, I defended my father's lands from a rival lord."

"With magic?"

"No, I didn't use magic. They had none so I used none. I used this sword." He patted the silver hilt. "My father let me use it in battle, and bestowed it upon me when he died. And then there was Sir Walter Brickman…I bested him at the Devon Dueling Tournament and he took it poorly. After the ceremonies, he attacked and I defended…." He looked at Salazar again. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Yes. It's much the same story as yours," said Salazar. "One lord is always fighting another." He'd seen battle in the Muggle way. He'd helped silence a peasant uprising in his region, which his family hadn't cared much about until they began burning crops all over the countryside. Peasants with pitchforks fell easily to steel swords. Muggle combat was messy and brutal, lacking all the elegance and dignity of a battle of wands.

Salazar couldn't deny a certain anticipation for the inevitable fight ahead of them. A wizards' battle. A test of intelligence and skill. He knew Godric was itching for just that, eager to prove himself. Salazar was just eager to experience.

They fell silent as they reached the treeline, directing their mounts slowly through the tress. The fog was less here, but they would not be able to maintain a very fast pace around the trees. They set straight in, and within the hour they had come across the old campsite that the boy Evander had told them about.

Salazar drew his steed to a halt, looking down at the small circle of charred earth, just noticeable amidst the leaves and dirt of the forest floor. It was fairly old. The Galts could be miles and miles away…if they knew how to Apparate, who knew where they were by now?

Godric dismounted and examined the site, searching for any sign of what direction the Galts had gone in. Salazar's grey eyes scanned the quiet forest around them.

"Godric," he said quietly after a few moments. His companion looked over his shoulder at him. "I don't think we're alone."

A silence fell over them, and Godric scanned the trees. Salazar drew his wand.

"_Homenum revelio,_" he murmured. He felt a slight, warm tremor go through his wand, and the end glowed. He moved it around, scanning the trees until the tremor was strongest. Godric saw this and moved forward immediately. He paused before moving through the underbrush, and the soft whicker of a horse was heard. Salazar heard a yelp and Godric reappeared a moment later, leading the tracker by the scruff of the neck.

It was Evander. Salazar raised his brow, and Godric released Evander in the clearing. The boy glanced between Godric and Salazar, looking somewhat sheepish.

"It appears we've been followed," said Godric. Salazar saw the corner of his mouth tug up in an amused smile.

In hindsight, Salazar wasn't entirely surprised. The boy was eager and adventurous, and had taken an immediate liking to Godric.

"So it would seem," said Salazar. Young Evander straightened to look taller.

"I want to come with you," he declared.

Salazar laughed softly thought his nose, shaking his head. But Godric was smiling.

"Do you now? Think you're ready for battle?" asked Godric.

Salazar moved his horse forward to try to get a clear look at Evander's eyes. There was determination there, the same that Salazar saw in Godric's.

"They need to be stopped. They killed Quinn's parents," said Evander. "I know these woods. I can help you!"

Godric looked at Salazar, but Salazar raised his brow and turned his horse again. It he boy wanted to come, Salazar would leave that up to him and Godric. The Lord Gryffindor looked back at Evander, seizing him up.

"I imagine if we said no, you'd follow us anyways," mused Godric. He paused for a thoughtful moment, during which Evander seemed to be doing his best to hold Godric's gaze. "If we say yes, there are going to be a few rules."

Evander's face lit up, but he stayed silent, listening. Salazar listened with interest as well.

"You must do as we say. We are older and more experienced than you, and where we are going there will be real danger."

Evander nodded. "I will."

"And if we do find the Galts, you will not engage them."

Evander's shoulders sank just slightly, but he nodded again. "All right."

Godric jerked his head towards the trees. "Get your horse."

Evander scurried off to retrieve his pony, which was peeking curiously through the brush. Salazar raised his brow at Godric, who shrugged.

"We killed our first men when we were barely older than he."

It was a fair point. When the golden-haired boy rejoined them, his shaggy brown horse in tow, he said, "There's a Muggle village about a mile northwest."

It seemed like a logical place to look, and the trio set off through the trees. Evander led them; his short and sturdy horse was sure-footed in the dense forest. But by the early afternoon it started to rain, and their progress was slowed significantly. Salazar was pleased to find that the boy didn't complain. He seemed determined to prove himself.

When the rain lightened up a bit, they decided to stop and eat a bite for lunch. They ate some of the rations Helga had provided, and Salazar and Godric took to teaching Evander a bit of transfiguration. The boy was curious and eager to learn, and Salazar was surprised that he enjoyed watching the progress. Evander screwed up his brow in concentration, and Salazar and Godric gave him advice here and there, whether it was to grip his wand differently or flick his wrist more. It gave them a few laughs and by the time they were horseback once more, Evander had almost managed to turn a rock into a mouse. The rock had sprouted what appeared to be whiskers.

The rain left and the fog returned as the travelers came upon the town Evander had spoken of. The trees gave way to a small field with little houses, lined with crops. But upon entering the town limits, they immediately knew they were on the right trail.

One of the houses was half blasted into rubble. The people were moving about anxiously and stopped dead when they saw Salazar, Godric, and Evander. Salazar dismounted to look less threatening, and he approached one of the villagers.

"What happened here?" he asked, holding the man's gaze. There was fear behind his eyes.

"Are you like them?" asked the man. "Do you have magic?"

Salazar hesitated before answering. "We have magic, yes…."

"Is anyone hurt here?" asked Godric.

Evander hopped off of his horse as well. "We're here to help!" he said.

The man looked at them anxiously, apparently debating whether or not to trust them. "Two men like you came through here last night," he said. "They took what little gold we had…and…well, look."

Godric got off of his horse as well and the man led them deeper into the town. He brought them to a house close to the one that was partially demolished, knocking on the door.

An old woman answered, and let them in. In her home, she was trying to care for four people—three men and a woman. Two of the men were covered in blood old and fresh, bleeding from magical wounds, and one's knees were turned grotesquely backwards, like a bird's. The other sat in a corner, staring off with a glazed look in his eyes. The old woman said the man had neither spoken nor responded to anyone at all since the attack. The woman was lying on a cot, convulsing as though she was having an endless seizure. Salazar looked from one of them to the next, a hard look on his face. Some of this looked like it was meant to kill…some just looked like it was just meant to be cruel. Salazar walked slowly over to the unresponsive man, kneeling in front of him and looking into his unusually pale eyes. He saw anxiety there, and consciousness. But he was blind and deaf, and scared. The old woman was telling them about how two men came into the town and began harassing those out in the streets. When they began bothering Mr. Cerwyn's pretty young wife, Myrcella ,he stood up to them and ended up where they saw him now, bleeding on the bed. Then they unleashed their magic on the town, destroying one of the larger homes and going from house to house taking whatever they wanted. Then they left and took Myrcella Cerwyn with them.

The old woman was clasping Godric's hand in both of hers, pleading, "You are like them. You can help…you can bring my granddaughter back…"

Salazar strode swiftly across the room until he was close to Godric and said quietly, "Godric, send the boy back."

Godric looked at Salazar, and then at Evander, who was staring uncomfortably at the wounded man with reversed knees. Godric nodded and looked at Salazar once more.

"Do you think Helga could help these people?" he wondered. Salazar looked at the four injured people, thinking.

"Perhaps…she would be their best bet. These people couldn't even begin to lift the curses. Evander!"

Evander scurried over.

Godric put a hand on his shoulder. "Evander, we need you to do something important."

Evander perked up. "What?"

"Take these poor people to see Helga. She may be able to heal them and remedy their curses."

"You want me to lead them all the way back?"

"These men may die if they don't have help," said Salazar. He could tell that the boy truly wanted to find the Galts, but he took another look at the Galts' victims and then nodded.

"I can do it."

Godric patted his shoulder. They spent the next hour explaining to the villagers that they knew someone who could help, and arranging for them to travel. They hitched two horses to a cart to pull the injured men and seizing woman. The blind man was helped onto a horse, and a friend offered to drive the cart. Evander retrieved his shaggy pony and looked at Salazar and Godric.

"You'll be back soon, wont you?"

Godric grinned at him. "Of course we will."

"We wouldn't miss an opportunity to have more of Helga's food," said Salazar with a smile. Evander smiled back.

"They're under your charge, Evander. Keep them safe," said Godric.

"I will," Evander promised. He took his place at the front of the line, and the wizards watched him lead the small group back towards the forest. Then Salazar and Godric mounted their own horses and turned in the opposite direction.

"Well, that proved more fortunate than I anticipated, letting him come along," said Salazar pleasantly.

"He's a good lad," said Godric. "With some guidance, he'll be strong."

The rain made tracking difficult, having washed away much of the Galts' trail, and Salazar noticed Godric getting more and more frustrated as they went deeper and deeper into the forest. His easygoing demeanor was gone, and his brow was set in a constant frown. Salazar himself was beginning to feel as though they were chasing a ghost. Most men left trails, and that included the Galts. But they could be anywhere…they could have Apparated. All Godric and Salazar had to go on was the notion that they seemed to be moving steadily north through Wales.

The forest was thick here, filled with cypress and heather thickets. Salazar's palfrey was quite interested in nibbling on a number of plants, but Salazar pressed it ever onward. The sky eventually cleared but soon after, night fell. Godric was fixated, and Salazar didn't argue when the notion of breaking camp wasn't addressed.

Once in a while they would dismount and examine the muddy earth for signs of a trail. They did pick up a track of footprints earlier in the afternoon, but soon lost it, though it seemed that was all Godric needed to refresh his determination. Salazar was starting to take this personally as well—he had said he would track the Galts, and he wasn't going to let them make a liar of him. That was for damn sure.

At close to ten, they came to a small clearing with a pond of fresh water, trickling from a stony outcropping. They drew near to refill their water supply and let the horses drink, but Salazar's horse suddenly stopped, nostrils flaring. It snorted and threw its head back. Salazar jerked on the reins to force it to stop, but the palfrey shuffled its feet backwards. Beside him, Godric's sorrel stallion gave a shriek and refused to move forward. Frowning, Godric slipped out of the saddle.

"Fine, I'll drink, you stay" he told his horse irritably, walking towards the water and kneeling down. Salazar quickly hopped off of his fidgeting horse and moved beside Godric, but his eyes were on the rocky outcropping from which water was streaming. There was a large split in the rock, just large enough for a man to move through. It appeared to go very deep.

Salazar felt deeply unsettled when he looked at it. He had a sudden urge to move away, as far away from it as he could. Godric had knelt and splashed water on his face but he too was now staring at the mouth of the tunnel.

"Do you feel that?" he breathed. Salazar nodded. Godric rose to his feet, moving slowly towards the rock. Salazar frowned but moved closer as well.

Godric looked at Salazar, blue eyes wide, but Salazar didn't know what to say. Slowly, Godric turned and stepped over onto the rocks, climbing towards the tunnel. Salazar fought every instinct he had and followed, a horrible dread filling his stomach. Inexplicably, they climbed into the tunnel. Godric barely fit, and he was forced to craw for the first few meters. Salazar went right behind him, but then found that it opened up into a tunnel large enough for them to stand in.

It was cold and damp, a small stream of water running along the floor. It was pitch black, and both wizards drew their wands and whispered, "_Lumos." _The ends of their wands lit, and they saw that the cave went on in a twisting tunnel. Godric looked at Salazar again, who nodded. Somehow he felt that this place was connected to their cause…or at the very least, they could not ignore it. Whether it was curiosity or confidence, they began to slowly move forward. Small bugs and lizards scurried away from their light. There was a clammy smell of damp, musty stone, like the cellar of an old castle. Salazar felt colder and colder as they moved deeper and deeper into the tunnel, and he could almost swear the shadows stirred…

"This is an evil place," he breathed. "Something terrible happened here…"

Godric didn't answer, but he was looking around them, eyes wide to catch any bit of light. Salazar saw him shiver. They both felt it, this was a place for atrocities, for crimes…

They crept along slowly, and the light of their wands reflected a pair of eyes in the darkness. They came upon a small Red Cap, a gremlin-like creature with ruddy skin, long, clawlike fingers, and large eyes. It bared its pointed teeth at them, but Salazar pointed his wand at it and it retreated behind a rock, not willing to seek blood from two adult wizards. There must have been bloodshed here, and recently.

Salazar noticed he was shivering, and he clamped his jaw shut to stop his teeth from chattering. He wasn't sure if it was from the damp, the chill, adrenaline, or the horrible, horrible dread that was filling him more and more with each step. Godric's pace became sluggish and meandering, and he opened his mouth to say something—perhaps suggest to turn back—but he stopped. Salazar looked ahead and saw where the Red Cap had gotten its last meal.

There was blood on the stone wall of the tunnel. It seemed old, though it was still moist because of the water moving through the passage. Salazar approached the spot, illuminating it with his wand. The blood was smeared about, dark against the stone. A breeze move through the tunnel, and Salazar's stomach churned. Somehow he knew….he knew it had to be…

"The girl?"

"Myrcella…" said Godric softly.

Salazar hoped they were wrong….but he didn't have too much time to contemplate it. They heard what sounded like a hoarse, shuddering inhalation. Salazar whipped around, shining the light of his wand around them. Godric did the same. He seemed suddenly small, somehow…

The shadows stirred. Something dark was rising in front of them.

"Go!" barked Godric suddenly.

Salazar moved quickly, running forward and following the tunnel. There was a breeze, he had to follow it…there was nothing for them in this dark place where something terrible had happened…

Godric was moving quickly behind him, slipping a little in the stream of water. Salazar looked back and saw the shadows moving after them, looming shadowy creatures of flowing black robes, like smoke…

Salazar felt like ice was coursing in his veins. He heard a choking sound, but it wasn't him and it wasn't Godric. He knew the sound. His hands itched and ached at the memory, the way they felt when they were closed around his brother's throat….a woman was crying, a man was screaming in rage….he felt alone, the strange aloneness and sense of panic one felt when being pursued, when being hunted… It urged him to run, run run…

They ran until there was a violent fork in the tunnel. On their right, the water trickled down from an underground stream. They tried to stop but slipped and hit the stone floor, sliding down the left side of the passage.

Suddenly they found themselves dumped out onto grass, into moonlight. Salazar rolled on his back and above them three dementors swooped out of the tunnel and into view. Godric rolled onto his back and frantically pointed his wand and shouted, "_EXPECTO PATRONUM!" _

A huge, silvery lion burst forth from his wand, jaw wide and teeth gleaming. It shone in a blinding silver light as it lunged at the dementors, who hissed and veered away. They quickly melted into the shadows of the tunnel, and Salazar shook away the strangled choking sound that was echoing in his head.

Godric rested his head back on the damp grass and exhaled hard, wiping a cold sweat from his brow. Salazar sat up, pushing his hair back and taking a slow breath. It was quiet now, peaceful, with crickets chirping drowsily around them. After the cave and the awful spell of the dementors, the moonlight seemed as bright as day, and Salazar was grateful. They were in a glen, edged by short but steep grassy hills, the forest around them. Salazar looked at Godric, who sat up as well, at a loss for words.

It wasn't Godric who spoke first, nor Salazar. Instead, a gruff voice on the hill above them said, "I thought we were being tracked."

Salazar and Godric looked up quickly. Standing above them were two men, stocky in build with hooked noses and rounded shoulders. The taller one had reddish hair, the shorter one had darker hair. Both of them were sneering.

The Galt brothers drew their wands.


	4. The Brothers Galt

_Author's Note: This chapter is fairly short, and I'm not entirely pleased with it. Had a tough time getting it started, but hey, it's all good fun, right? So it is what it is. I made up most of the spells used in this chapter._

* * *

><p><strong>AND IN THEIR TRIUMPH DIE<strong>

**chapter four  
><strong>**The Brothers Galt**

Godric was on his feet in an instant and he found himself demanding, "Where's the girl?"

The elder Galt tilted his head. "The girl?"

"Myrcella Cerwyn! You took her from the village southeast from here, where is she?"

"Oh, you're too late for her. We would have shared her if we'd known you wanted a go at her," said the younger Galt with a grin.

Godric clenched his jaw tightly, a hot anger pushing away the awful chill left by the dementors. He lifted his wand, pointing it at the brothers, and when he spoke his voice was steady. "Tell me your names, Galts. I prefer to know the names of the men I kill."

The younger brother stepped forward and slid carefully down the hill, moving towards Godric and Salazar. His brother followed. "Introductions, is it? Well, don't you have nice manners. Mortimer's the name. This here's Mordrey. and you'd best remember that." He lifted his wand as well, aiming it right at Godric. His slimy grin turned into a scowl. "Now tell me your name, you little shit, and how the fuck you found our camp."

For it _was_ a camp. There was the remnant of a campfire on the other side of the glen, and sacks of goods they had looted from Muggle villages. The trees and brush were thick on the hill around them, and Godric realized it would have been almost impossible to notice this little hollow unless you had passed through the stony tunnel.

Salazar stepped closer to Godric, his wand drawn as well.

"We are the Lords Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin," said Godric. "And will answer for what you've done."

The elder, Mordrey, slid down to join his brother. "Is that so, _My Lords?_"

"You think because you have magic it gives you the right to abuse Muggles?" barked Godric angrily.

But Salazar said coldly, "Don't bother, Godric. It doesn't mean anything to them."

The elder Galt sneered. "You'll regret sticking your nose in our business."

Before another word was spoken, Mortimer waved his wand. Godric immediately deflected the sliver of red light that flew towards him, and in the blink of an eye, Salazar and Mordrey engaged as well.

The glen was illuminated with flashes of light, as in a storm. Godric found that the younger Galt was quick and aggressive, his curses whizzing past Godric's ear or hitting his deflections like punches, over and over and over. Godric deflected again and again until he could get a shot in, and his hit forced Mortimer back a few unsure steps. Godric moved in aggressively, eating up the surrendered ground between them and flicking his wrist to deliver a curse. Mortimer was able to deflect most of it, but a deep gash appeared in his shoulder.

Grinding his teeth in rage, Mortimer thrust his wand towards Godric and snarled, "_Avada Kedavra!_" A wave of emerald green light shot at Godric. But the move had been easy to follow, and Godric lurched to the side to avoid it. Galt had little poise and no battle stance. He went in with curses flying, and Godric always knew when he was about to wave his wand before he did. Godric, on the other hand, tried to strike suddenly, without giving his opponent the minute signs that would reveal his intent. He watched for these signs in Galt—a narrowing or widening of the eyes, a wind-up before the actual delivery of a curse, a small step forward, any subtle indication that he was about to make a move.

But one thing he _was _accomplishing was to back Godric up towards the cave entrance, where he would be cornered against rock. Godric side-stepped, moving towards the slope of the hill. He would prefer to have the high ground, but while the slope was only a few feet higher than he was tall, it was steep, and he wasn't about to turn his back on Galt to climb it.

Galt delivered a strong blow, and Godric was able to deflect it, but lost his footing against the steep slope as he did so. Galt's next shot hit home.

"_Sonorus Caputus!"_

Godric felt a sudden, violent impact against his head and face, and was thrown back against the damp earth. He hit the ground hard but that was nothing compared to the hex itself—his ears began to ring. Loudly. Louder. Louder still. The sound was deafening, reverberating through his whole head, ringing so violently it was painful, like the worst migraine a human could possibly endure. Godric grasped at his temples, fingers clutching at his curly auburn hair. He grunted in pain, eyes widening. He felt queasy. The sounds of Salazar and Mordrey Galt dueling were completely drowned out by the awful ringing.

Mortimer Galt was laughing in satisfaction, walking slowly over to Godric. He said something, but Godric couldn't hear. It was surely a taunt. This is what the Galts liked to see, and instead of finishing Godric off, he was boasting…

Godric gritted his teeth in a snarl, not unlike the little gold lion clasping his cloak, and pointed his wand.

"_Tectonus!_" he cried, heaving his wand in an upwards motion.

The earth under Galt's feet buckled up. Like a small earthquake, it threw him off of his feet. Slabs of black dirt and silvery limestone jutted violently up from the earth. Godric couldn't hear it over the maddening ringing in his skull, but he felt the tremors under him as he scrambled waveringly to his feet, one hand still clutching at his temple, blood running from his nose….

The spell spread and rock and earth jolted up between Salazar and Mordrey Galt, putting a barrier between them. Salazar took the opportunity to look at Godric. He was bleeding from a gash on his forehead, but was on his feet, and his eyes glinted with determination. He quickly aimed his wand at Godric, who gave a small cry of relief as the ringing in his head ceased. Salazar then scrambled quickly up the slope, around the Galts, and Godric followed his example to gain the high ground. The whole landscape of the hollow was changed now. Some of the trees at its edge were tilting and bucking as the earth roiled.

The elder Galt thrust his wand angrily and the ground stopped shifting. They launched another attack, but quickly found themselves at a disadvantage now. Salazar aimed a well-placed curse, a green light flashing, but Mordrey Galt Disapparated an instant before it hit. The rock and ground where he had just stood burst into rubble. Salazar whirled around, searching… Below, Mortimer Galt Disapparated as well.

Godric looked wildly around and saw them, standing side by side, about ten meters deeper into the forest. Godric swore under his breath, willing them not to run, to stay and fight.

They didn't run. They attacked together now, and Godric and Salazar found themselves deflecting a grinding, powerful wave of magic that was pressing in on them. Godric and Salazar stood by one another, wands out, willing their own magic to push the wall of energy away from them. The air rippled. Trees around them were splintering and groaning. Godric and Salazar's arms trembled with the effort. But then the curse broke with a flash of purple light, and Godric was quickest to recover. He thrust his wand forward and hit Mortimer Galt square in the chest with a blast of magic. Galt fell backwards with a splash of blood.

Mordrey cried out in a rage, and then he swung his wand around in wide, arching circles. The air rippled, and then there were flames erupting from his wand. An inferno built up around him, circling in a violent ring. Then he swung his wand forward, throwing the firestorm at Godric and Salazar. They heard it rushing towards them like a windstorm.

Salazar leapt forward, holding out his wand and his free hand. The fire was deflected, and arched upwards upon Salazar's direction. He turned his wand with his wrist in precise, eloquent motions, coiling the flames, wrangling them. His brow was knitted with concentration and effort. Godric and Salazar were bathed in a yellow-orange glow, and Godric felt the heat singeing his skin as he watched the impressive sight.

Salazar used his hand and his wand to direct the flames, and they took on a long, winding shape. Salazar had taken Mordrey's fire and fashioned it into a great serpent. It opened its jaw and revealed long fangs of fire. The raging, fiery beast lunged at Mordrey, who was looking on in disbelief.

Mortimer dragged himself to his feet, his front stained with scarlet. He rushed at Godric, who easily pushed aside his sloppy curses.

The fire snake was setting trees alight. The forest around them was suddenly glowing orange. Salazar jerked his arm forward and the snake struck again, crashing down on Mordrey and swallowing him in its fiery jaws. Godric heard the briefest scream before it was done. Salazar quickly swung his wand in a semicircle and snuffed the flames out. The forest darkened again.

Mortimer was on Godric, savagely exchanging blows. He was now a desperate man, a raging man, and that's when men were most dangerous, Godric knew. He struck, and struck, and struck, until Godric was able to step forward and hit him with a burst of magic that cracked his jaw. Godric's hand found the ruby-studded hilt of his sword and when Galt lunged again, he fell right onto the blade. Godric thrust upwards, right up into the rib cage and out between the man's shoulders. Galt's eyes widened and he instantly stopped moving, a strange sound coming from him, like the tiniest, strangled breath.

He started to go slack, and when Godric withdrew his sword he felt a rush of warm blood run over his hand. Mortimer Galt collapsed in a bloody heap, dead. Godric looked up to see that Salazar had snuffed out all of the flames that had taken to the trees, and there was a charred ruin of a corpse where Mordrey Galt had stood.

And then it was silent.

Godric looked down at the dead Galt, satisfied. He had succeeded. A man was dead who would have gone on to rape and pillage and torture.

They had been tougher than Godric expected, and he was agitated by the thought that if more of those curses had struck him, he would be dead or worse. The air was buzzing, charged by the magic that had been unleashed in the area. The Galts' magic had been aggressive, sloppy…but strong and cruel. While Godric had aimed to strictly kill, the Galts's work would have mangled. His head still ached from the hex Mortimer had hit him with…he wondered what would have happened if it had not been lifted by Salazar. Would his brain be scrambled? He reached up and wiped away some of the blood that was flowing from his nose, and then he touched an ear to find there was blood there as well.

Salazar walked slowly over to him. Godric was glad to see that he was in one piece. He was bleeding from the mouth and a cut at his forehead, and gingerly touching one side of ribs, but seemed mostly hale. Godric wiped his sword clean and then moved away from the Galts' bodies, sitting down heavily in the grass to catch his breath. Salazar slumped down beside him, also breathless.

They sat in a dazed silence for just a moment, looking around at the damage. The forest was dark now, the trees and earth scorched black. Smoke still lingered in the air.

"Well," sighed Salazar at last, with an air of pleasantry. "That wasn't so bad."

Godric flashed his lopsided grin, looking at his companion. They had worked well together, able to move in sync with their magic…. Salazar lived up to his name, and Godric was itching to discuss in detail all the magic that had just passed.

"You know something, Sal?" said Godric. "I'm rather glad you decided to be so nosey and follow me into that inn."

Salazar looked at him, and then he gave a wide grin and started laughing, the tired look on his face vanishing. Godric laughed with him and clasped Salazar's shoulder companionably. They had succeeded, and Godric was positive neither of them would have done so alone. He was still angry…angry at the Galts for all they had done. For the Muggles they had tormented, for the Cerwyn girl they were too late to save. But it was done now.

Godric and Salazar burned the Galts' bodies entirely, wands and all. Then they combed through the camp, retrieving what goods the Galts had stolen. It was all petty. They targeted Muggles who didn't have much to their names….they took what little the Muggles did have to offer. Godric and Sal collected it all in satchels and sacks and struck out to put the hollow and the cave behind them. They were exhausted and aching, but they did not want to stay near that place. The made a long circle around the path of the cave, unwilling to pass through it again. Godric wouldn't admit it, but he was very glad to see that Sal seemed just as reluctant as he. Godric's grandfather had told him that magic leaves traces, especially dark magic. That cave was dripping with dark magic, both ancient and new. It was a place of evil and of suffering, and had been so for ages.

It took them the better part of an hour to pick their way through the dark forest, back the way they came. Their path was lit by their wands, but they were still unsure whether or not they were going in the right direction until something ahead of them started in the underbrush. Sal lifted his wand and they saw a flash of red—Godric's sorrel stallion.

Godric coaxed his horse back to him, and another few minutes of searching revealed that Sal's grey palfrey had stuck close to the stallion. They led the horses away until they found a suitable spot to sleep. It was past midnight, but they lit a small fire and had something to eat. Though tired, they couldn't help but discuss what had just happened. Neither man spoke about the cave, but they recounted their fight blow for blow to each other, discussing all of the magic that had been used. They talked about the different kinds of energy, and how they had matched it to protect themselves. Godric had found that much of Mortimer Galt's magic had been sheer brawn, and with a small burst of his own magic he had easily transferred its energy away.

Now that it was all over, Godric found that his satisfaction was quickly melting away. The Galts were dead and that was it. He had wandered in, talked to strangers, killed strangers. But that was it. He'd never caught them in the act, he'd never been able to challenge the Galts when they were actually attacking people. And he didn't even want to contemplate what they had done to the Cerwyn girl before killing her…they had found no trace of her at the camp. A tiny voice inside him wanted to say that meant she could still be alive, but that was foolish. He knew. She had died in that cave.

Godric felt his mood sour. He sat slumped against his horse's saddle, staring at the fire. He had taken a cloth Helga had wrapped around a large loaf of bread and was now holding it to his nose, waiting for the bleeding to stem. Combat had been one thing, but neither Godric nor Sal felt confident enough in their healing skills to mend each other's minor wounds.

When his nose finally stopped bleeding, he threw the bloodied cloth into the fire and settled down to sleep.


	5. A Place for Peace

_Author's Note: Filler chapter alert!_

* * *

><p><strong>AND IN THEIR TRIUMPH DIE<strong>

**chapter five  
><strong>**A Place for Peace**

Helga had her hands full, what with six youths to care for and now the four injured Muggles Evander had returned with. Helga had been prepared to scream her head off at Evander for disappearing, but she had immediately been distracted by the severity of the Muggles' injuries. And of course, she had to admit (to herself at least) that she was also proud of Evander. She could hardly fault the brave boy for being driven to help, to do what was right. She just feared for his safety, that was all….and after looking at the Galt's victims, she was upset at the thought of what might have happened to Evander if he had encountered the two wizards.

When her patients arrived, she immediately wrote to Rowena. Neither were true healers, per say…but Helga did have a decent foundation for the craft. Still, she wanted Rowena's opinion and suggestions. Helga had never known a smarter witch. If either of them was stuck, Rowena was sure to find the answer in some tedious tome buried deep in her grandparents' libraries. Helga scribbled out a short letter describing her patients' ailments, and sent her fastest little owl for Scotland. It would take a few days for an answer, but she was still comforted to think that advice was on its way.

In the meantime, she and her house elves immediately got some potions underway. Little Shireen helped Helga preen through her magical garden and harvest what they needed. Then the girl helped start the potions, under Helga's careful guidance. Her house elves were scrambling busily, helping to treat what physical wounds they could. They quickly had the two men stitched and bandaged, neater than any Muggle surgeon could have done.

Helga spent some time sitting with the blind and deaf man, who was extremely anxious because of his sudden limitations. She put an arm around him comfortingly, assuring him that they would have him back to normal soon. In the meantime, she made sure he had some warm stew.

Little could be done for the convulsing woman, though her seizures had lessened from sheer muscle exhaustion. Helga conjured soft restraints to hold the woman to a cot, so she would not hurt herself while seizing. Helga thought she knew what she needed for a potion to help the woman, but she was eager to get a second opinion from Rowena before trying it out. She began the brew in the meantime.

For the man whose knees were reversed, it took a few hours of painful magical reversal. Helga charged Leona and Evander with looking after the other children, and keeping them out of the room with the Muggles. The younger children didn't need to see such grotesqueries. From time to time, she called Leona in to help, as she was the oldest and most mature of the children. Indeed, the girl was hardly a child, as she was of marriageable age.

Three days passed since the Muggles had arrived, and Godric and Salazar did not return. Rowena's letter beat them back to Penfryn. Helga felt relief and reassurance upon reading Rowena's words. She seemed to agree that Helga was on the right track. Helga made some minor adjustments to her potions based on Rowena's thoughts. The blind man's potion was ready, and upon drinking it he immediately started to regain his vision. There were tears in his eyes, and he started to try to talk, to thank Helga. It took some time before his speech stopped being clumsy, and his vision cleared completely. The injured men began to walk and seemed much better. The one man's knees were sore and unsteady, but gradually getting more and more stable.

Later that night, the other potion finished steeping, and with Leona's help, Helga was able to make the Muggle woman drink. Almost instantly, she relaxed, falling into an exhausted sleep—but she was still. Her seizing stopped. Helga knew it would take a little time for her to regain her strength. Days of convulsions had drained her.

The four were almost ready to return home by the fourth morning. Helga insisted on providing them with some food for the journey. At around lunchtime, they were preparing to leave, readying the horses and the cart.

Suddenly Evander called out, "They're back! They're back!"

Helga looked up in the direction Evander was pointing. Godric and Salazar were riding across the field, side by side, their horses at a swift canter. A grin spread across Helga's face, and she felt a flood of relief.

They truly looked the part of lords, riding back from victory. It was an impressive sight for quaint little Penfryn. Evander ran to meet them as they slowed their horses to a walk. They made their way through a small herd of sheep, who scurried away from the large horses.

Helga walked over to meet them as they dismounted their horses. They both bowed their heads in greeting to her, and then exchanged polite kisses on both cheeks.

"The Galts are dead," Salazar told her.

"And you're both unhurt?" asked Helga eagerly.

Godric scrunched his nose and smiled, shaking his head. "Scratches," he said dismissively. Salazar chuckled.

They greeted the four Muggles, who thanked them profusely before starting on their way back home. Helga watched sadly as Godric explained that they had been unable to save Mr. Cerwyn's wife. The man was gutted, and Godric spoke quietly with him for a few moments before the four struck out for home. Mr. Cerwyn thanked Godric nonetheless. When they had gone, Helga patted Godric and Salazar's arms, ushering them inside to sit at the kitchen table. Evander gladly saw to their horses.

Helga had exchanged four patients for two, but wasn't complaining in the least. With a flick of her want, a kettle was whistling and she whipped up some tea for them. The began to tell her the story of what had happened while she checked them over. They told her how they had found Evander the stowaway, and that he had guided them to the Muggle village. They continued on through their story of fighting the Galts, and how they had spent the last few days at the Muggle village, using their magic to help repair what damage the Galts had left behind. They had given the Muggles all of the goods they had retrieved from the Galt's camp. It was likely from Godric seemed in a dour mood….not _towards_ Helga or Salazar, but they could tell he was bothered and irritated.

Helga gave them a quick check-up, worried about the effects of the Dark magic they had battled. Godric still had a headache from the hex that had hit him. Helga knew a quick and easy potion that would solve that, and she sent little Shireen out to the garden.

Salazar had some bruised ribs. He sat with his shirt pulled up and arm raised, and winced as Helga prodded his side.

"Ow, bloody _hell_…" he grumbled.

"They're not broken," said Helga decisively. There was a nasty yellow and purple bruise at his ribs, but it would heal.

Shireen came inside with the plants Helga had requested, and helped her start the potion. Leona followed Shireen and sat at the far side of the table. Evander came in and sat with Salazar and Godric, talking to them about the Galts. Godric seemed to have taken a great liking to the boy, so Helga didn't send Evander away.

Within the hour, Helga ladled the potion into a mug, and Godric drank it gratefully. Helga insisted the children do their chores and work on their studies. There was a bustle of activity, as was normal for the house. Godric and Salazar were interested to see what the children were learning, so they remained at the table for a while. Helga rounded some of the kids up so they could do some reading.

"Quinn!" she called over the heads of the children. "Quinn, Rowena sent you another book." The dark-haired boy with freckles on his nose and cheeks appeared, eagerly accepting an old, leather-bound book Rowena had provided. Helga had told her how clever the boy was, and how he loved to read and learn.

Helga quizzed them on some basics. They didn't have a practical lesson at this time, but Helga was able to discuss some magical theory with them. Then it was time to move onto some basic arithmancy and languages. Leona and the house elves helped get everyone situated, and Helga offered for Godric and Salazar to get washed after their travels. They seemed to have forgotten their grimy state, but at the suggestion of a hot bath, they both seemed eager. Upstairs, Helga prepped some tubs of hot water for them before returning to the children.

By the time the lessons ended and the children went outside to play and practice harmless spells they had learned about, Godric and Salazar emerged once more, clean and refreshed. They still looked travel-weary, but the difference was startling, now that they were clean and groomed. Helga shooed them outside while she began to start dinner. Mothering was what she did, and she didn't mind providing for Godric and Salazar in the least. She saw Quinn gravitate towards them a little, but shyly come back into the kitchen with Helga. She kissed the boy on the top of the head and let him help her cook. She suspected he wanted to talk to Godric and Salazar, since the Galts had made him an orphan…but he obviously didn't know what to say to them.

Through the window, Helga saw that Godric was playing with Evander, teaching him swordplay with wooden swords. He would slowly show him a few blocks, then move at him a little fast. She saw Evander get his fingers clapped by Godric's sword, and Godric laughed good-naturedly as the boy shook his hand. Then he helped Evander correct his misstep.

Helga called them in for dinner, and they all ate as a group. The children each cleaned their plates, and then went about their evening. Some went outside to play, some relaxed inside. Godric had been quiet through dinner, and went to sit on a chair in the yard by himself. Helga was tidying up, and after a few minutes she saw Salazar go outside and sit beside Godric. They sat in silence, but they both seemed content just to be in each other's company. Helga suspected they hadn't shared all of the details of what had happened on their journey, but whatever it was it seemed to have bonded them. Helga wasn't nosy enough to pry—she was just glad to see that they were safe and to know that the Galts had been stopped.

When the kitchen was tidy, Helga went outside to sit with Godric and Salazar. Godric went to rise to his feet respectfully, but Helga waved a hand at him and told him to stop fussing with the formalities. She smiled and sat beside them.

"Did you both get enough to eat?"

"Helga, my own mother never fed me better," teased Salazar dryly, as though she was foolish for even worrying about that. Godric and Helga smiled.

"Thank you for spending time with the children," she said to them. "They've been so excited to have trained wizards staying with us."

"They're good children. Bright," said Godric.

Salazar raised his brow and tilted his head. "Most don't know their wand from a table leg—"

"But they could learn, they're bright. You and I have been very privileged, Salazar."

"Precisely," said Salazar. "And how many wizards have you met who know what we know about magic? Not many." He furrowed his brow and looked at Helga. "How did you learn, Helga? Was it in your family?"

"Oh yes, my mother and grandmother were splendid witches. They taught me everything…if you like my cooking, you should have tasted hers," she added with a soft laugh.

She sat back, looking out at the children in the yard. Shireen and Elyssa were playing with a little weed flower, prodding it with their wands and managing to make it change colors. Evander was watching and animatedly telling them to try different things. Leona was sitting on her own, but from time to time she would glance interestedly at Helga, Godric, and Salazar. Helga wanted to give them the world...but there was only so much she could teach them in a setting like this. In ancient times, magic was openly accepted and commonly used, from the Egyptians to the druids. It was active in society. But no longer. Most Muggles weren't even aware of the magical beings around them, and wrote it off as superstition. Helga was fortunate that it was still acknowledged in Wales, and in some areas of Ireland and Scotland. This village had known druids in its past, and respected the craft. They were happy to have Helga's family living among them.

The three of them sat in silence for a few moments, thinking that over. It was Helga who broke the silence, leaning forward and looking at her guests.

"I'm going to visit an friend of mine in a few days, in Scotland. I wondered if you two would like to join me," she said. "She's a positively brilliant witch. I think you'd like her."

The men looked over at her, then at each other. Godric shrugged and turned back to Helga.

"Sure, why not?"

Helga grinned. "Splendid!"

"What about the children?" asked Godric.

Helga waved a hand. "Oh, they're fine. Leona looks after them while I'm gone, and some of our friends in the village check in on them a few times a day."

Later that evening, Helga sat down to write another letter. _Dearest Rowena, _she started. She wrote of the success with her Muggle patients, and that the threat of the Galts had been eradicated.

_I'm so looking forward to seeing you again! And I hope you don't mind—I'm going to bring a few friends with me. Presently, Lords Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin have been staying with the children and me. It is by their hand that the Galts were finished. I think you would like them immensely. _

_ I hope you and your father are well! We will arrive tomorrow afternoon._

_ Your dearest friend,_

_ Helga_


	6. The Four

_Author's Note: This one proved tricky!_

* * *

><p><strong>AND IN THEIR TRIUMPH DIE<strong>

**chapter six  
><strong>**The Four**

The next two days passed by quietly, which was fine for Godric and Salazar after weeks and weeks on the road. The days were cool and the evenings were spent either in the warmth of the house or around a large campfire in the yard. Helga left Leona in charge of the children—Godric and Salazar could tell Leona wasn't entirely thrilled about the idea of playing babysitter, but she was responsible and did as asked. They left on the third afternoon after an easy morning and a spot of lunch. They said goodbye to the children, and with some clothes packed (Helga had thankfully seen that Godric and Salazar's clothes had all been washed), the three of them gathered around the massive hearth in Helga's house. Helga kept some Floo powder in a small pot on the mantle. She took it down with both hands and Godric and Salazar each took a fistful.

Helga instructed them as to their destination before casting the powder into the fire. The orange flames became vibrant green, and she carefully stepped into the tall hearth. She had long black robes lined with marigold, and her honey-colored hair was pulled back in a bun. The congenial-looking badger that was the sigil of her house was cuddled on her silver broach.

"Glenhouse," she said clearly.

The green flames whooshed around her, engulfing her. In the blink of an eye, she had vanished, and the flames receded. Godric went next, throwing the powder into the fire, which flared green again. Godric stepped into the hearth, glanced at Sal and said as clearly as possible, "Glenhouse."

There was a rush, and Godric felt as though he had been catapulted through a tunnel. He landed quite suddenly, placing a hand on the brick interior of a fireplace to balance himself, and then stepped out into a small parlor. Bright sunlight spilled in from wide windows with heavy, navy blue draperies. Godric brushed himself off. He had some difficulty getting the soot out of the fur that lined the shoulders of his cloak. Helga stood in the room, hands folded as she waited patiently. A moment later Salazar appeared at Godric's back, stepping out of the hearth and brushing soot off of his deep green vest.

Then the door across the room opened and a young woman entered, slightly breathless.

She was beautiful—slender with fair skin and soft brown eyes, and plush pink lips. She had long dark hair that was presently gathered up in an elegant low bun, and she was robed in dark blue and bronze. She grinned widely upon seeing Helga and ran forward to throw her arms around Helga's shoulders. The two women laughed and hugged happily.

"Oh, Helga! I'm so glad you made it!"

"It's so good to see you, Rowena," said Helga, smiling brightly. She turned so that Rowena could see Godric and Salazar. "These are my new friends, Lord Godric Gryffindor and Lord Salazar Slytherin. My lords, this is Lady Rowena Ravenclaw."

Rowena looked at the lords and seemed to remember herself. She cleared her throat and adopted a more demure demeanor. She curtsied politely and said in her Scottish accent, "Welcome to Glenhouse, my lords."

Godric and Salazar bowed to her. "We're happy we could come visit," said Godric.

Rowena smiled and then took Helga's arm. "Come! I've told my father you all were coming. He would like to meet you, my lords."

She led them through a dark hallway and up a flight of stairs, chatting with Helga about the children, and the Muggles she had healed. It appeared as though Helga had consulted with her friend as to the treatment of the Muggles, and Rowena was pleased to hear that all had been mended. Rowena led them to a drawing room, bright and comfortable despite the fact that the manor was made of stone, as most strongholds were. Godric felt at ease, for it reminded him of the Gryffindor manor, despite being somewhat smaller.

A handsome man with silver hair and a neatly-trimmed silver beard was sitting by the large bay windows, reading. His robes were dark blue with bronze trim, like his daughter's, and he wore a bronze pin fashioned in the shape of an eagle. He looked up over his spectacles when Rowena brought her guests into the room.

"Ah, Helga," said Lord Ravenclaw warmly. He set his book aside and stood to greet Helga. He took both of her hands in his and kissed her cheeks. "I'm happy to hear you're safe; I heard about your troubles with the Dark wizards."

"Thank you, m'lord," said Helga. She gestured to Godric and Salazar. "We have them to thank for the end of our troubles."

Godric and Salazar bowed once more.

"Lord Godric Gryffindor, Sir."

"Lord Salazar Slytherin."

"Ah, yes…Gryffindor and Slytherin…I know those names. I know your fathers. You must forgive us, my lords…we are more fortunate than some, but I imagine this must seem a humble home compared to what you're used to." Godric could tell Lord Ravenclaw was sincerely apologetic, and he looked so earnest that Godric wanted to put him at ease.

He bowed his head politely and said, "Not at all, we feel quite welcomed already. Besides, Salazar and I have spent some time on the road, any bed is a treat." Godric smiled congenially, looking at Helga and Rowena.

Rowena smiled as well. "Oh! Our elf will take your coats, my lords," she said. An elf appeared seemingly from nowhere; he must have been standing by the door. A moment later, he was practically buried beneath Godric and Salazar's bulky cloaks, and he teetered out of the room.

"Would you care for some tea, my lords?" asked Rowena.

"Godric, please," Godric insisted, smiling.

"And Salazar, of course. And, I would love some tea, if it isn't too much trouble." Sal raised his brow and looked at his companions, to see if they'd be joining him.

They shared tea with Lord and Lady Ravenclaw and told them about their business with the Galts. When the tea was done, Lord Ravenclaw suggested that Rowena show them around the little estate. Helga and Rowena led Godric and Salazar from room to room. The most impressive room was the library, which was packed from floor to ceiling with books and manuscripts. Little dust motes could be seen drifting lazily in the sunlight that streamed through the windows. Salazar was quite interested in the literary collection, and he examined the shelves closely. Godric, too, was impressed. It wasn't a huge room, but it was quite a sizeable collection considering that Glenhouse was maybe a third the size of Gryffindor Manor. Godric's home had a larger library, which is grandfather frequented, but after a quick look around Rowena's library, he could tell that the Ravenclaws had some rare and valuable texts. Godric himself enjoyed reading from time to time—he would never have learned what he had about magic and combat without his share of reading—but it wasn't a pastime of his. He could tell instantly that Rowena and her father were readers.

"This is my favorite room," said Rowena, gazing around at the books with a loving expression. Godric couldn't help but smile, as she was so obviously content while standing in this room.

"I'd bet you've read them all, have you?" asked Godric.

Rowena shrugged. "Well, I've had my whole life to get through them all."

"That is true."

Helga piped in. "Rowena's quite the writer as well. She wrote a treatise on the classification of charms, hexes, and curses. It caused quite a stir recently—it was brought to the Wizards' Council."

Rowena looked askance at her friend, but Godric noticed her lips were resisting a proud sort of smile. Sal looked up from the row of ancient-looking encyclopedias he was leaning in to examine.

"You wrote that?" he asked suddenly. Rowena's brown eyes moved to meet his.

"I did, my lord."

Sal studied her as though he hadn't gotten a proper look at her yet, before saying, "It was quite good….I thought 'R. R.' was a man…. But then, that's precisely why you signed it thusly, isn't it?"

Rowena's brows lifted and she gave a small shrug. "Some men don't wish to hear what a woman has to say."

"Their loss," said Sal, who returned his attention to the bookshelves.

Godric looked between them. "Tell me about the piece," he said, feeling slightly behind. Helga was grinning as she listened to them talk, apparently happy Godric and Salazar were impressed with her friend.

"I made observations as to what distinguishes a charm from a hex, from a jinx, and so on…how the intentions of the caster play into the classification of the spell, as well as the physiological distinctions between such spells as they are cast," she explained. "I think the current classifications are a good start, but they're not specific enough."

Godric raised his brow and looked at Helga, who grinned.

"I told you, as much as you and Salazar talk magic, you needed to meet Rowena…"

"How is it that you two know each other?"

"Our fathers were close friends…they worked together to mediate a peace treaty with a clan of goblins near Inverness. Helga and I had many adventures while they were away." Rowena grinned at her childhood friend, who laughed at the fond memories. "I keep telling her to write a book about her cooking charms, but she's like an old granny with a secret recipe."

Helga waved away the suggestion, rolling her eyes. "Oh for Merlin's sake…"

"_Do _tell us, dear Helga, I fear I shall starve when I leave your company, and then you'll just have to live with the guilt for the rest of your days," said Godric matter-of-factly, his mind drifting to Helga's excellent meals.

"What, you mean to tell me they don't have a cook at mighty Gryffindor Manor?" teased Helga.

"Godric gives himself far too much credit," teased Salazar from behind a bookcase. "I daresay you'll find a more effective way of getting yourself killed long before you ever starve to death, Godric. Danes, Dark Wizards…"

Rowena glanced between them, unsure whether or not this was a jest, but Godric laughed.

"Salazar represses his own wanderlust. It's really quite sad," he told the ladies, loud enough for Sal to hear.

Rowena laughed this time and peered around the bookshelf. "My lord, please, feel free to borrow anything from the library while you're here," she said.

"Well if I'm taking your books, you may as well call me Salazar."

"Yes, we shall be friends!" declared Helga with an air of satisfaction. "You Lords and Ladies must drop your titles, it's most tedious to us poor peasant folk. Rowena, shall we have a go in the yard?"

The four of them made their way outside and past the stables, where a large Scottish draft horse peered at them. It was black with white socks and a white blaze, and it had tufts of longish fur by its hooves. After a moment it decided its trough was much more interesting than witches and wizards, and ignored the small group.

Glenhouse was nestled in a shallow valley in the Highlands. Godric had always considered his country to be a beautiful one, but he had spent little time in the Highlands, and he was instantly envious of Rowena's home. Mountains swelled up around them with steep slopes. Snows hadn't hit yet, but it was still much cooler here in the north than it had been in Penfryn. The grass was starting to change from a lush, brilliant green to a rusty sort of color, which was still beautiful somehow. Godric suspected that even in the dead of winter, this place would be beautiful. From the crook between two peaks above Glenhouse flowed a stream like a silver ribbon, winding down the slope to the floor of the valley. There was no town or other settlement that they could see. Glenhouse stood alone in this peaceful place. Godric took a deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh mountain air. On the far side of the glen, he spied a small herd of red deer, grazing.

Rowena led them to a yard on the side of the manor where the horses were exercised. At present it was empty, though Godric spied a farrier's station in an alcove of the house. Further behind the house was a small pen where about a dozen shaggy sheep stood huddled together, slowly and thoughtfully chewing on their cuds. Glenhouse was backed against a steep wall of thick green grass and rolling mountain rock, and a chilly wind swept steadily down the slope into the valley. Godric drew the furry collar of his cloak closer to his neck, but he saw that Rowena seemed hardly bothered by the wind. It blew the stray strands of raven hair from her face, and there was a light smile on her lips.

"Helga and I used to come out here to test our skills," she told Godric and Salazar. "We came up with many games to practice our magic. Shall we work on some transfiguration, Helga?"

Helga drew her wand and nodded, grinning. "I think that's an excellent place to start."

"How it works," said Rowena, striding quickly across the yard. "Is we take turns transfiguring an item…sometimes we follow the alphabet, or a category of sorts." She retrieved a small wooden pail from the farrier's station and walked back across the yard. She set the pail down ten paces from where the others stood, then she rejoined them and withdrew her own wand. "Shall we try an alphabet?"

"That's a good start," said Helga.

Godric and Salazar curiously drew their own wands, and the four proceeded with the game. Rowena started at the letter A, and with a flick of her slender wand, the pail became an apple, gleaming round and red in the green grass. The idea was to go down the line as quickly as possible, eliminating a player if they hesitated too long or if their transfiguration failed. Helga went next and with a small _pop_, the apple became a little brown bird. It fluttered into the air, with every intention of simply flying away. Godric quickly flicked his wand at the flittering thing and it dropped back to the ground as a cloak, landing in a heap. Salazar swished his wand and the cloak became a finely-carved wooden door, with elegant details. The handles were silver serpents, and Godric wondered if it was a replica of a door at Slytherin Manor. Rowena quickly had the door changed into an eagle, and she grinned as the sigil of her house flapped large brown wings. Helga continued without hesitation and produced a flag of deep blue upon which Rowena's eagle was embroidered. As the fabric fell twisting to the ground, Godric turned it into a gnome. ("Oh of course, the silent G!" laughed Helga.) Before the ugly little thing could scurry away, Salazar turned it into a hare, nose quivering and long ears pressed against its shoulders.

Before long they were trying to transfigure faster and faster, laughing as they saw each other scramble to think of something to fit their letter, and remarking on the more clever solutions. Salazar smirked when he had the opportunity to produce a snake, and Rowena impressed them with a fine-looking male elk, with a handsome set of antlers as well as a fine blue halter and harness embroidered in bronze. Helga was the first to be eliminated when she repeated Godric's cloak for C by accident. The others laughed good-naturedly and then proceeded.

Salazar went next, when he hesitated for a moment too long when trying to decide what to transfigure Godric's vole into.

"No! Too long!" shouted Helga, laughing.

"Out! Out!" said Rowena and Godric playfully.

Sal cursed and turned on his heel to join Helga, but he was smiling and shaking his head in the competitive spirit.

Then it was down to Rowena and Godric. Godric found himself frantically transfiguring to keep pace with Rowena, who hardly seemed to be without an idea for a transfiguration. They went back and forth, back and forth, quicker and quicker. What once had been a wooden pail was a snowy goose, a hawk, a sprawling line of ivy complete with beautiful red flowers…finally Godric was at the letter V and his mind was blank. He hesitated as he picked his brain for something that began with the letter V, but it was just long enough.

"Aha!" cried Rowena and Helga.

"Done!" declared Salazar.

"Rowena, you _read_ too much," said Helga.

Godric threw his head back and groaned in defeat. "Damn! V, what would you have done for V, Rowena?" he wondered.

"No one tried a Vipertooth….though I don't know that I could have done it, I've never transfigured anything as large as a dragon before…"

"I'm glad you didn't get to V," said Salazar.

"Another round!" demanded Godric. "Another game!"

"Charms, then?" suggested Rowena with a smile.

The Charms game Rowena and Helga had invented was a slower, more thoughtful process. One player transfigured the wooden pail into something, and the next player would charm it to do something, and so on. Rowena changed the wooden pail back to its original form (it was lying in the grass in the form of an ulna bone). Helga went first, twirling her wand until the pail lifted from the grass and poured out bundles and bundles of brightly-colored flowers. Salazar flicked his wand and each flower exploded in small showers of dazzling sparks.

"My flowers, you brute!" Helga teased, giving Salazar's arm a playfully indignant shove. Sal looked surprised at being touched in such a way, but Godric was pleased to see a grin spread across his face.

"They had a dignified end," said Sal. He gazed thoughtfully at the pail, and then transfigured it into a pewter sundial.

Rowena tilted her head at the sundial, hoisting herself to sit up on part of the fence. After a moment of thought, she waved her wand. Suddenly they heard soft music, and the dial was turning like a music box. It was a lovely little charm, and the four of them stood quietly and listened to the chiming tune for a moment, before Rowena transfigured it into a small round end table. Godric flicked his wand and the table's legs began to move, dancing. It was an absurd sight, and the four of them watched it, chuckling.

They took turns exploring different charms. It was a quieter game, and gave each other a good sense of one another's capabilities. Helga seemed quite adept at charms, and the effect was always lovely and well-executed. But soon the sun was sinking behind the highland hills, and the air was growing chillier. After returning the pail to its original form, they four of them retreated back into the house, where it was pleasantly warm.

They were just in time for supper. Godric, Salazar, and Helga joined the Lord and Lady Ravenclaw in the small dining room. It would have been a dark space, but the fireplace and numerous sconces provided ample light. The mild-mannered Lord Ravenclaw shared stories of his travels with Helga's father, and of the Wizards' Council, which Godric and Salazar's families had attended for quite a few generations. They had a warm, hearty meal, with a stout beer and a rich red wine. They were all quite at ease and quite enjoying the table conversation. Rowena seemed slightly more open and talkative after having spent some time with the guests.

The wine and the tongues continued to flow well after dinner was done and Lord Ravenclaw had retired for the night. Godric, Salazar, Helga, and Rowena moved to the drawing room and gathered around the hearth, sharing stories. They talked of everything, from personal stories to magical theory, and the wine bottles were passed back and forth. They were all laughing and talking cheerily. Godric shared stories of all the varying ways in which he and Gaeralt had managed to give his parents and the household servants regular headaches with their magical blunders. Once, Godric had accidentally jinxed his brother such that his legs would not stop dancing about, and Gaeralt had destroyed half the drawing room with his uncontrolled movement before their father came rushing in to deliver the countercurse. Then Godric had run to hide from his father and quite suddenly found himself transported to the roof. It was immensely satisfying to know that his father would be going mad searching the house for him, until Godric slipped and fell two stories, breaking an arm. Lord Godfrey had forced Godric to remain in an ordinary sling for a full week before allowing his arm to be healed with magic, to teach him a lesson. Godric was, of course, back on the roof within three days of his arm being healed, just to see if he could do it again.

Rowena and Helga shared a story of how they had tried to change the color of one of the Ravenclaws' horses, but instead turned it into a duck with a horse's tail by accident. For days, the girls had hid this horse-duck in their room and maintained a story that the horse had wandered out of its pasture, before Rowena's house elf finally found the source of the mysterious quacking she had been hearing…

"You two transfigured an entire beast? At such a young age?" asked Godric.

"Oh it was quite by accident, I assure you," laughed Rowena. Her fair cheeks were flushed from the wine, giving her a warm, content look.

Godric tried to goad Salazar into sharing some of his own missteps, but Sal wouldn't say a word concerning life on the Slytherin estate.

Thus the four of them got into an animated discussion about the proper way to begin basic transfigurations, and what sort of things could and could not be transfigured. At one point, Salazar and Rowena got on a tangent about what alchemical properties carried over into the field of transfiguration. Helga and Godric listened for a few moments before loudly interrupting with a cheer for more wine and less science. They all laughed and drained their cups, and that put an end to alchemical theories. Then they each discussed their own strengths, and made observations on one another's tendencies and magical traits.

"…You're so _precise!_ I think that makes it so much more effective…."

"…I have trouble with smaller details in my transfigurations…"

"…But Helga, you have such a keen sense for how each effects the other…"

"…You really must teach me, I never get enough practice with charms…"

They shared stories on some of the most impressive magic they each had seen from other witches and wizards, but were somewhat sobered when they realized that such experiences were not terribly extensive….Much of what each of them had displayed in the yard exceeded the skill level of most other magical folk they had each known.

"It'll all die out eventually," said Salazar. "When the old families are gone, and none of it is passed on…"

By then they were warm and drowsy and the alcohol was buzzing in their systems. Helga was yawning into her hand, and Salazar appeared to be staring into nothing. Godric was tired too, but he could hardly recall a more enjoyable evening. He had few peers…his brother was one of his dearest friends, but he was still Godric's younger brother. At a certain point, there was a level of responsibility between them. But these three with him now, Sal and Helga and even Rowena….he felt that they were friends. He felt as if he'd known them for a lifetime, and he was surprised to realize that plans to return to Gryffindor Manor hadn't crossed his mind for some time now.

Rowena was the first to rise from her chair and announce she was going to bed. The others followed suit, glad someone had brought up the suggestion. Rowena and Helga showed Godric and Salazar to the room they would share before retiring to Rowena's room.

"Sleep well, gentle ladies!" called Godric with exaggerated chivalry. Helga and Rowena laughed and Sal rolled his eyes, dragging Godric into the room.

He and Salazar were quick to fall into their respective beds, and quick to fall asleep. He felt exceedingly content, with a full belly and a full day. But as he drifted off to sleep, he was thinking about what Salazar had said.


	7. The Proposition

**AND IN THEIR TRIUMPH DIE**

**chapter seven  
><strong>**The Proposition**

Godric woke the next morning to find that Salazar was already up and out of the room. Outside, the sky was overcast, and an even, pale light filled the room. After lying in bed for a few moments, contemplating the fierce hunger that had been left behind by the wine, Godric rose and changed into his day clothes. The Lion of his House had been embossed into the left shoulder of his leather surcoat, and his sleeves were dark, dark red. Once he had pulled on his boots, he exited the room and stepped out into the hallway. Glancing left and right, he hesitated as he tried to remember which way he had come by the night before. Guessing right, he walked slowly down the hall, looking for Sal or Helga or Rowena.

It wasn't long before he came to a hallway he recognized, and rediscovered the library. He thought that was an excellent place to start looking for his companions and he peeked his head inside. He was right. Rowena was sitting on the window ledge, scrawling away at a piece of parchment. Her hair was down today. It spilled in black waves past her shoulders and down her back, almost to her waist. She wore a simple gown of soft grey and dark blue, and Godric was struck by how lovely she looked. He cleared his throat to announce his presence, hoping he wouldn't startle her.

She looked up at him, lips parting in mild surprise. Then she smiled. "Good morning, Godric," she said.

Godric bowed and took a few steps into the room. "Good morning. I hope I'm not interrupting…"

"Oh, not at all!" said Rowena, looking down at her writing. "After all of our talks last night, I wanted to make some notes..." She turned her brown eyes back to Godric, turning her quill between her fingertips. "I…wanted to apologize, if my behavior last night was ever…inappropriate."

Godric frowned, surprised to hear this. They had all had their share of wine last night, but nothing inappropriate had happened, as far as he was concerned. They had just talked, as friends. "How do you mean?"

She chewed on her bottom lip and began to slowly and neatly fold her parchment. "Becoming somewhat intoxicated in the company of two Lords I'd just met," she said stiffly. "It was…unbecoming, of my station."

Godric couldn't help but grin his lopsided grin, and he gave an easy laugh. "I don't know what you're worrying about. I do that quite a lot, actually."

She seemed to realize he thought nothing of what she considered a breach in etiquette, and so she smiled again.

Godric took another step forward, extending his hand. "May I see…?"

"Oh…yes, of course." Rowena handed the piece of parchment to Godric, who unfolded it with care and skimmed it. He smiled as he read her notes, which cited many of the concepts and ideas the four of them had debated last night, as well as some of the tricks they had accomplished in the yard.

"Are you going to write a book?" he asked, passing the parchment back to Rowena.

"Oh, I don't know…" She set the paper on the nearby desk and stood up.

"You should," said Godric.

She smiled again and he almost told her his idea right then….but it seemed so foolish…

She spared him when she gestured towards the door and said, "Have you eaten yet?"

"I haven't, and I'm starved, actually," said Godric. He followed her out of the library and down the corridor to the dining room, where Helga and Salazar were seated. Helga was already eating, and Salazar seemed quite absorbed in a book from the Ravenclaws' library. He had one hand resting on the rim of a mug of tea.

"Ah, Lord Gryffindor has graced us with his presence at last," said Sal, without looking up from his reading.

"You must have been waiting so eagerly, Sal, forgive me."

Helga looked up brightly. "Good morning! I just woke up…but I knew you'd be awake, Rowena."

"I've been up for a while," said Rowena, taking a seat across from Helga. Godric sat beside her. A house elf came with tea for both of them, and shortly following that came breakfast.

After they had broken their fast, the four of them struck outside into the valley, despite a threat of rain. Rowena and Helga claimed that there was a little grove of mooncalf burrows just a mile or so from Glenhouse, and they set out to see if perhaps they could trick the creatures into coming out during the day. They walked through the thick grass of the valley, stepping over little streams and climbing around juts of stone. They passed a small herd of red deer, and Godric wondered if it was the same herd he had seen yesterday, and if they lived in this valley permanently. They eyed the passing group with caution, though the witches and wizards were quite a safe distance away.

Rowena led the way, and when they were nearly a mile from Glenhouse, she struck up the slope of the valley. She gathered her skirts in her hands and her boots were sure-footed on the rocky slope. The others followed, and by the time they reached a level plane, they were somewhat breathless.

They found a little grove pockmarked with burrows. The thick grass was imprinted with strange, flat footprints all around. There had been a full moon two nights ago, and the mooncalves had come out to dance with their flat feet. Godric, Salazar, Helga, and Rowena proceeded to try different charms over the little grove. After some trial and error, they made it seem dark. Godric managed to produce a light from his wand that strongly resembled the pale light of a full moon, and after a moment they saw the round muzzles of mooncalves peeking out from their dens, confused. They spent some time watching and coaxing, and managed to get two calves out of their burrows. They quickly realized they had been duped, and that there was no full moon, and they retreated quickly. They were strange little animals, about the size of dogs. Godric and Sal had never seen them in person before, and couldn't help but laugh at the oddness of them, and at the little calves' curiosity. Godric had to admit they were cute, in a peculiar way.

After they had gotten a good, amusing look at the mooncalves, they let the creatures be, and made their way back across the valley. It was a wonderfully pleasant walk. The chilly air was crisp and fresh, the damp grass was soft underfoot, and the four were greatly enjoying one another's company. They all talked like old friends as they strolled.

The remainder of the afternoon and evening, they spent in the library (much to Godric's surprise). They became engrossed in deeper discussions of magic, and Rowena showed them some very interesting texts from the library's collection.

The four of them spent the next few days as such, enjoying the wild valley before autumn became too cold, and sharing stories and studies in the evenings. Salazar made it all the way through one book already, and he suggested it to Godric. Nighttime found them both reading before going to sleep. It was immensely rewarding to be completely at his own leisure, but with each passing day, Godric became more and more sure of the thoughts that were prickling in his mind.

On their fourth day at Glenhouse, Helga decided to return to Penfryn, just to check on the children for the day. Godric and Salazar remained with Rowena. But after lunch, Rowena excused herself to speak with her father about household matters, and Godric and Salazar embarked on a postprandial stroll around the grounds. Godric rubbed the velvety nose of the Ravenclaw's sturdy horse as they passed the stables.

"Sal, I want to talk to you about an idea I have…" started Godric tentatively.

"Oh?"

Godric hesitated, collecting his thoughts they way he had run them over in his head half a hundred times. He spoke carefully and deliberately. "I know we've only known each other for a short time, but…I feel that we are of like mind with many things."

Sal raised his brow in a way Godric had seen him do many times, when he was pretending to be unimpressed with the conversation. "What, is this a proposal?" he said dryly. "I'm flattered, Godric, but I'm afraid my affections lie with the fairer sex…"

Godric rolled his eyes. "Shut it and listen, will you?" Sal grinned, but allowed Godric to continue.

Sal listened patiently as Godric explained his idea.

And much to Godric's elation and surprise, he agreed.

Helga returned around suppertime to report that all the children and the house elves were well. Quinn had finished the latest book Rowena had sent, and Leona was longing to be rid of her babysitting station. Helga decided she would only stay another day.

After they had eaten their dinner, and Lord Ravenclaw had retired for the evening, the four of them gathered in the drawing room with some wine and a nice fire. While the others settled into armchairs, Godric remained standing. Sal watched him expectantly, his gaze unwavering.

"Er, Helga, Rowena…I wanted to ask you both something."

The girls looked up at Godric with interest. Now Sal turned his gaze to them, watching steadily. With Helga and Rowena's eyes on him, Godric straightened and instinctively assumed the demeanor of his lordly station.

"I have spoken with Salazar on this, and he is supportive…The thing is, I think the four of us get on quite well with one another, and to be very honest, I think all four of us know a great deal about magic. More than our parents and mentors, even. We have learning," he looked at Rowena, "and we have experience." He looked at Sal, thinking of their battle with the Galts. "And well, I've watched your children, Helga, and I've seen other witches and wizards who have never learned anything about how to use their talents. Salazar was right when he said it would all die out soon. When the old families have dissipated, so will all of their knowledge."

Helga and Rowena remained silent, listening curiously. Godric put his hands behind his back, one hand grasping the other wrist, and declared, "I think there should be some place for wizards and witches to be trained, to be educated—by people who have sufficient knowledge and talent for magic."

There was a pause.

"Are you suggesting that…we teach magic to others?" asked Helga, looking somewhat daunted by the idea. Unwittingly, Godric felt the corner of his mouth tug up into a timid grin.

"I am," he said confidently. "Sal and I have discussed establishing a place of learning for young witches and wizards."

Rowena looked at Helga, and then back at Godric. "And…you think _we're _the ones to teach them?" she said incredulously. "Shouldn't something like that be left to the Council?"

Godric's brow furrowed with determination. "Rowena, you wrote one treatise that completely reinvented the way those old men think of magic. Helga, I've never seen anyone so adept at brewing potions or casting charms. Not even my grandfather."

"Nor mine," added Salazar, raising his eyebrows.

"See?" Godric gestured to Salazar, as though that was proof. "We could do it. We could set up a school, for all magical children."

Helga and Rowena said nothing, but looked at one another, unsure.

"Helga, how many children do you think are like the ones at Penfryn? Cast out of their homes because their families don't understand their powers? And how many witches and wizards have burned when they could have saved themselves if they'd only known a simple charm? _We know magic._ We can teach others. We have a _responsibility_ to teach others."

There was a silence after his words. The fire crackled steadily in the hearth, and Helga and Rowena contemplated what Godric had said. Godric glanced at Sal, anxiously wanting to hear the ladies' thoughts….

At last, Helga broke the silence. "I think…it's a wonderful idea."

Godric brightened, excitement flooding through him. "You do?"

Helga looked up and met his gaze. "I do. You're right. If my poor children had a proper place…they could learn so much."

They looked at Rowena, who was chewing on her bottom lip, looking at her lap. She seemed to feel them watching her, and she spoke slowly, carefully. "I just…I don't know that we're the ones to do it… You're talking about a huge responsibility. And a huge financial investment—"

"I have money," said Godric.

"And so do I," said Salazar decidedly. "I will put down every bit of gold I have to see this through. A real school, a real establishment."

Godric grinned again, looking at Sal. The look on Sal's face told them all that he meant what he said, and Godric was immensely glad to know that Sal was behind him on this. Godric looked back at Rowena.

"We've read your writing, Rowena. You're the most brilliant witch I've met."

"We could give so much, Rowena," urged Helga.

"It's quite a job you're talking about, Godric. And for us to decide to do this together… you and Salazar haven't even known me very long…" Rowena said, meeting Godric's eyes.

"You're worried we'll dislike working with each other," observed Salazar.

"It's a logical concern, is it not?"

Godric grinned. "Are you trying to politely tell us that you don't like us, noble lady?" he teased.

"No!" said Rowena, a blush rising in her cheeks. Helga laughed softly. "I only meant…just what I said. What Salazar said."

"No one would be bound to this any longer than they wish to be. If it isn't working, you can leave." Godric drew his chair up with a wave of his wand and sat, facing Rowena. "And what else are you going to do with all of your brilliance, Rowena Ravenclaw? Write essays for the old men of the Council and sign them 'R. R.'? Or will you come _share_ your knowledge?"

Rowena looked back at him, and he saw the anxiety in her face. But he saw thoughtfulness as well, and she looked between the three of them. Helga wrung her hands and watched her friend eagerly. Slowly, Rowena took a breath and said, "Very well. I will join you in this venture, if you will have me."

Helga clapped her hands, and Godric was feeling so full with satisfaction he could burst. "Then it's settled! We shall build a school for witchcraft and wizardry."

The Four looked at each other in silence, half-smiles on their faces. The weight of Godric's words sunk in. They felt suddenly excited, and frightened, and unsure, and bold.

"Well then," said Salazar at last. He waved his wand and their glasses were each filled with wine. He lifted his in a toast. "To the school."

The others each took a glass and they clinked them all together. "To the school!" they said, and they drank.


	8. Family

**AND IN THEIR TRIUMPH DIE**

**chapter eight  
><strong>**Family**

Helga said what they were all thinking.

"Bloody hell, where do we even begin?"

"Well we…we'll have to find a proper place," said Rowena. She was smiling now, her eyes bright with excitement.

Helga snorted and raised her eyebrows. "It'll have to be bigger than Penfryn."

"Much bigger," said Godric.

"If we're going to do it, we're going to do the thing properly," said Salazar. "And it should be built to last."

And as so often happened with Godric, Salazar, Helga, and Rowena, they tumbled into eager conversation. They decided they must construct proper classes, organized by subject. What sort of place should they teach in? Would students live there or come and go? How would they find those with magical talent? What sort of things were most important to teach, and who could teach what? The more they talked about it, the more impossible it all seemed, and the more they realized just how much work they would have to do to make this happen. But they also grew more and more excited, spurred on by the sheer challenge of it. They decided they must take a basic proposal to the Wizards' Council. If this was to be a proper establishment in the Wizarding world, it seemed necessary. Godric and Salazar both felt that before they attended the Council next month, it seemed prudent that they have the necessary funds, lest the Council scoff at the project.

"I will go to the Hollow tomorrow, and negotiate my inheritance with my grandfather," said Godric. He looked to Salazar. "Will you be able to do the same with your father?"

"Yes," said Sal confidently, watching his wine as he swirled it in the glass. "I will leave tomorrow as well." Yes, he would see it done, whether his father agreed or not.

"Excellent," said Godric. He was on a roll now, Salazar could tell. With Salazar, Helga, and Rowena on board, Godric's plan was officially in motion.

Salazar hardly slept that night, and he knew Godric lay awake for quite some time as well, though Salazar suspected for different reasons. After getting a few restless hours of sleep, Salazar gave up and picked up his book, reading by the light of a single candle. Slowly, slowly, the sky beyond the window turned from black to deep blue, to pale purple, to grey, to light. Salazar made his way to the dining room and a sleeping house elf woke to bring him some morning tea and bread and cheese to break his fast.

Lord Ravenclaw emerged shortly after and joined Salazar at the table. Salazar thanked his host for his hospitality and the use of his library, but did not breach the subject of the plan for the school. It was Rowena's place to tell her father about their decision, not Salazar's.

Rowena was next to come to breakfast, being an early riser. "Good morning, Salazar, are you well? You must have been up quite early," she said politely.

"Good morning Rowena. I am fine, yourself?"

"Quite well."

Helga woke next, perky and pleasant as always, chatting as she buttered a breakfast roll. Godric was last to the table, yawning like a sleepy lion. The four of them had decided to go to Penfryn together that day. Salazar and Godric weren't sure how long they would be at their respective homes, and wanted to gather the rest of their things. Helga wanted to get back to the children, and Rowena wanted to join her later in the day after speaking to her father about their plans. They all had a distinct feeling that there was a lot of work ahead of them.

After breakfast, Godric and Salazar packed what clothes they had brought with them and joined Helga and Rowena at the Floo fireplace.

"I'll join you this afternoon," Rowena told them.

Salazar and Godric bowed. "Thank your father again for us," said Godric. Rowena smiled and nodded.

"I shall. See you all soon."

One by one they entered the hearth with a fistful of Floo powder and said "Penfryn." Helga went first, followed by Salazar. He entered the kitchen to find that the children had all come to greet them.

"Welcome back, Lord Salazar!"

"Thank you."

Leona appeared at his side, holding out her hand. "I'll take your cloak."

"Oh, thank you," said Salazar. He passed his travelling cloak to her as Godric emerged from the fireplace, shaking out his auburn locks.

Penfryn was just the way they had left it: cozy and inviting, and full of activity. The children were glad to have Helga back to restore the normal routine, and Salazar had a suspicion the children were happy to see him and Godric as well. He didn't have much experience with children, and now that he had agreed to help run a _school_, he was looking at Helga's kids from a whole new angle. Soon, he would be helping to _teach_ some of these children…he frowned contemplatively, watching Helga talk to the kids about their day, Godric talking to Evander…they seemed much more natural at it than Salazar thought he'd be. And yet a part of him was a little surprised to find that he wasn't wholly uncomfortable in a house full of children. They were all well-behaved…and eager to learn. He supposed as long as things remained that way, he would be fine.

Besides, a handful of schoolchildren weren't likely to get the best of Lord Salazar Slytherin.

"Salazar, shall we tell them?" called Helga. Godric looked over at Salazar as well.

"I leave that to you and Godric, dear Helga."

"Are you leaving now? Were you going to ride or…?" asked Godric.

"I was going to use the Floo network, with Helga's permission. I don't fancy being on the road for another eight weeks."

Godric nodded in agreement. "That's true. I'll be Apparating."

"Are you leaving again?" asked Evander, looking between Godric and Salazar.

"Not for long, we just have some business to take care of. Helga will explain," said Godric, grinning at Helga.

Salazar and Godric walked to the back of the house to the little room they had been sharing. They suspected they would be gone for at least a few days, and wanted to have all of their provisions with them. And for Salazar's part, he wasn't sure if he had any clothes left back home….

"I shouldn't be gone long," said Godric.

Salazar threw the last of his clothes into a satchel. "I expect I'll have other business to tend to at home," he said. "I might be a little longer."

"Well we'll all be here when you return." He looked at Salazar and grinned. "Try not to miss me too much."

Salazar rolled his eyes. "No, Merlin forbid I have a quiet day, free from ridiculous scheming."

Godric laughed and clapped Salazar's shoulder.

"That sounds dreadfully dull. It's a good thing you met me. We should go before the kids hear what's going on, they'll be too excited to let us leave."

* * *

><p>Godric Apparated with a loud <em>crack<em> and found himself standing in the foyer of Gryffindor manor. The stone floor was covered in a rich red carpet. An ancient shield with crossed swords hung on the wall to his left, and a large stone staircase sprawled before him. A house elf heard his arrival and came scurrying to the front door. It jumped in surprise.

"Master Godric!" it squeaked.

"Hello, Topple," said Godric with a smile. "Where are Gaeralt and Grandfather?"

"Master Artorius is in his study, Sir. Topple does not know where Master Gaeralt is," said the elf.

Godric nodded his head in thanks and said, "That's all right, Topple, I'm sure I'll find him." Then he walked briskly up the stone steps and down a hall. He didn't get far before Gaeralt appeared in a doorway.

Gaeralt Gryffindor was smaller than his brother, with brown hair instead of Godric's dark auburn. They had the same dark, blue-grey eyes, though. The younger of Godfrey Gryffindor's sons grinned wildly at the sight of his brother, and he nearly tackled Godric when he hugged him.

"Ha ha! The conquering hero returns!" laughed Gaeralt.

Godric laughed and clapped his brother's back before holding him out to look at him. "I see nothing's changed since I've been away—I'm still the good-looking one." Then he laughed again as Gaeralt punched him in the chest. Godric put an arm around his brother's shoulders and continued walking.

"Are you well, brother?"

"Of course I am. Are _you?_ Why aren't you off having more _adventures_?" teased Gaeralt dramatically.

"Oh I have something better in mind this time, little brother."

"Oh bloody hell, what now? Looking for another way to get yourself killed?"

Godric grinned his lopsided grin. "Give me more credit than _that,_ I know exactly what I'm doing! How's grandfather?"

"Sharp as ever," said Gaeralt, raising his brow in exasperation. "The bastard means to outlive us all."

"Ah, he should, he's the better man." Godric clapped his brother's shoulder again as they neared Artorius' sitting room. "Let me speak with him, I'll be down for supper."

Gaeralt nodded and left, and Godric knocked on the large oak doors that stood before him. They were beautiful doors, ornately carved and graced with the face of a fierce lion. Godric had grown up looking into the face of that lion. When he was a small boy, he wanted to _be _a lion. He would crawl around under the furniture and pounce on his poor little brother, and roar at the house elves… He asked his mother if he could become a _real_ lion, and she would say to him, _But you _are_ my little lion, Godric. _

Another house elf opened the door for Godric, who nodded in thanks and stepped into the study. It was a fine little library and office, from which the Lord of Gryffindor Manor did his business. Technically, it belonged to Godric, after the passing of his mother and father. But all members of the household had far too much respect to dare ask Artorius to forsake it. He had passed the lands and titles over to his son when he felt Godfrey was ready. Godfrey never disappointed. He was well-loved by the people who dwelt on their lands. Godric was grown when his mother, Lady Alyne, fell ill and died, and Godfrey went soon after in a battle against raiding Danes. Artorius had outlived his son, and now mentored his grandsons. Godric might be Lord of Gryffindor Manor in titles, but Artorius always commanded respect.

Artorius Gryffindor—or Art, as he preferred to be called, often bemoaning that Artorius was such a tedious name— was seated in a magnificently large red armchair by the fireplace, with his favorite pillows. He was an old man. He had a head of flowing, snowy white hair that reached his shoulders, and a short white beard. His cheeks had somewhat hollowed under his proud cheekbones, and the bags under his clear blue eyes gave him a tired look. But Godric knew better. Artorius was sharp as a whip, and Godric had to agree with his brother—Artorius was bound to outlive them all. He seemed invincible to Godric. He was the Old Lion. He even looked the part of one, with his fur-lined night robe of soft, supple leather.

Artorius looked up and when he saw Godric, he pulled himself slowly to his feet, using the arms of his chair for support. "Oh, Godric…"

Godric hurried to his grandfather's side to help him, but Artorius waved him off. "No, no, no, stop fussing," he said in his soft, slightly wheezy voice. He put his arms around Godric in an embrace, patting his back.

"I'm glad you are well, Grandfather," said Godric gently.

Artorius chuckled and released Godric, moving towards the fire to warm his old, gnarled hands. "And what did you expect, some…autumn wind to carry me off?" he said.

Godric laughed and sat in the chair opposite Artorius'. "Hardly," he said. He waited patiently for his grandfather to warm his hands and be seated again. Artorius started the conversations, even when you were the one with something to say. At last, the Old Lion slowly lowered himself back into his chair, drawing his robe around him warmly. Then he clapped both hands to the arms of the chair.

"So," he said definitively, looking at his grandson. "Did you do what you set out to do?"

Godric nodded. "I did, Grandfather."

Artorius nodded. "Good. Tell me."

At his grandsire's behest, Godric recounted the tale of the Brothers Galt, from the early weeks of his trek, to meeting Sal, to Helga, and finally to the days when he and Sal helped the Welsh villagers mend their town. Artorius sat with his fingers laced together in his lap. He didn't interrupt Godric except to ask the occasional clarifying question. Then he would nod and fall silent again so that Godric may continue.

"Good," he said when Godric had finished. "Good." He nodded again and sat thoughtfully for a moment. "Tell me about this Salazar Slytherin."

Godric shook his head, raising his brow. "He's…very clever, Grandfather. You would like him. He's very well learned. He's a man of strong conviction. And a good friend."

Artorius nodded, eyes crinkling in thought. He lifted his folded hands, raising a finger and wagging it pensively. "I knew his grandsire. Selvyn Slytherin. I found him to be quite shrewd…but I believe he took a Muggle to wife."

"He did?" said Godric in surprise.

"Mm, yes, I recall it was something of a scandal amongst the old families. They had such a reputation, you know…. But, you don't argue with a Slytherin."

Godric felt he could argue with Salazar if the need arose…indeed, they had had more than one debate over magical theories. It had never become personal. Mostly, Godric found that Salazar challenged him and his beliefs, and he enjoyed their conversations.

"So what has brought you home, Godric? You are never content to stay in the castle. You follow the wind."

"What, a brother can't visit his brother, a grandson his grandsire? What a grumpy old man you are," he teased.

"Bach!" barked Artorius, swatting the air towards Godric, who laughed before growing serious again. He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands.

"I've just come for what's mine," said Godric. He was here for his share of the inheritance. He had it all in name since his father had passed, but he had come for the physical gold. It was his to do with as he pleased, after all. His responsibility.

Artorius raised his white eyebrows, making more lines appear on his forehead. "Oh? Your inheritance?"

"Yes."

"And what do you seek to do with such a large sum of money?"

Godric grinned, eager to tell his grandfather about his idea. "Something great, Grandfather. Truly."

Artorius appeared slightly amused. "And do you know what greatness is, young Godric?"

Godric blinked and frowned, unsure of what Artorius was getting at. "I have gone great things, Grandfather." He had, hadn't he? He always tried to be at his best. He always tried to be brave, to do the right thing. It was a poor man, he thought, who did not try to do his best, to make the world better in what ways he could. Had he not done so?

"Ah," said Artorius, his old wheezy voice like a whisper. "Great deeds do not necessarily make great men, Godric. I've seen men do great things, for the wrong reasons. And I've seen men do _terrible_ things, for better reasons."

Godric was at a loss, his mouth opened slightly. Why was his grandfather saying this?

"Are you saying…that I should not have killed the Galt brothers?" he asked at last, incredulity in his voice. It was the only thing he could think of, though he couldn't begin to conceive why his grandfather would disapprove. Artorius had seen warfare, between wizards and Muggles alike. He had killed his share of men.

Artorius furrowed his brow and shook his head. "_No_, no, no," he said consolingly, sitting forward and preparing to rise from his chair again. He looked at Godric pointedly. "No. Merlin knows, there are men in this world who could do with some dying." He pushed himself laboriously to his feet as he spoke, stepping over to the fire again. "Some men die much sooner than they deserve. Some men don't die soon enough. I have known both such men." He pulled out his wand, a sturdy, stubborn thing. He prodded it towards the fire to stoke the flames.

"This thing you have done," he continued when he had finished tending to the fire. "Killing these Dark wizards, these Galts…it is a good thing. You have delivered justice to those who could not achieve it for themselves. You have stopped evil men from hurting more innocent people—which they would have surely done."

"But then—"

"But whatever we do, with every choice we make, we must know _why _we do a thing."

"I don't make choices blindly, Grandfather," said Godric.

"I know, boy, I know," soothed Artorius as he lowered himself back into his throne-like chair. "It is simply…something you should keep in mind, as you come here to collect your fortunes."

Godric was quiet for a moment, clenching his teeth in thought. He always took his grandsire's words seriously. He thought about his decision to pursue the Galts. His brother had told him he was mad—he didn't know the Galts, what matter was it to him? But as Artorius had said: they would have continued to hurt people if they had not been stopped. Godric did not regret his decision to challenge them.

"So what you're saying, Grandfather, is you don't think I am a great wizard?" he joked with a small, lopsided smile, knowing he was simplifying the matter.

Artorius raised his brow. "Not _yet_," he said with a kind smile. "But you will be."

Topple the house elf entered the room with a tray of tea for Artorius. Godric knew it was brewed with herbs and remedies for Artorius' stiff joints.

"Thank you, Topple," Artorius said softly. He took a warm mug and blew gently on the liquid within, dissipating the steam rising from the cup. Then he settled back and looked at his grandson once more.

"Now," said the Old Lion. "Tell me about this great thing you are going to do."

* * *

><p>Salazar stepped out of the hearth, green fire rushing around him. This particular room was dark, quiet, and chilly. He waved his hawthorn wand at the fireplace behind him, and orange flames jumped to life. Salazar stamped his boots on the stone floor and brushed soot from his finely-tailored robes before looking around the room.<p>

It was his bedroom, exactly how he had left it. The large four-poster bed had been made by the house elves since his departure, pristine and untouched for months. Most of his belongings were still in place. There were a few books, his writing materials at his desk, and upon inspection he discovered that all the clothing he had not taken with him remained in the wardrobe. He was satisfied and somewhat relieved that his father and his brother had not touched his bedroom. He strode out into the hallway, blinking at the sudden light. He walked straight down the hall, towards the opposite wing of the manor.

It was a fine manor. Much of the stone floors were covered in plush, emerald green carpets. Paintings adorned the walls, and the wall sconces were all silver, fashioned in the images of snakes. He passed one of the staircases and almost trampled the house elf coming up. It squeaked in alarm, dropping the tray of tea it was carrying. It brought its little clawlike hands to its mouth, round eyes wide.

"M-master!"

"Where are my father and brother?" asked Salazar.

"M-Master Sandro is in the east drawing room, my lord," said the elf, still in shock. It remembered itself and snapped its fingers, repairing the tray and kettle, which jumped back into his hands.

"Have my room turned-down. I might be staying for a while," ordered Salazar. He swept past the bewildered elf, down the east wing. He came to an ornate wooden door and stopped, listening to the laughter he heard from inside the room. A man and at least one woman, talking loudly. Salazar opened the door abruptly without knocking.

The parlor was lavishly decorated, with only the finest furniture and tapestries. The fire was lit, as we all the torches and candles, so the room was bright and warm and inviting. It was far more lively than Salazar's cold, dark, empty room. Heavy green draperies were closed over the windows. Sandro Slytherin sat on the couch with one woman in his lap, another other leaning against his side. They were, quite obviously, Muggle whores. Their makeup was heavy and their clothing was minimal. The one in Sandro's lap wore heels, ladies' smallclothes, and a corset fashioned to push her breasts up as alluringly as possible. The other girl wore a light robe, open so that her breasts were completely exposed. Between them was Salazar's younger brother, Sandro. All three of them stopped and looked up at Salazar as he entered the room. Sandro went ghostly white, brown eyes wide with shock. Salazar was pleased to see fear in those eyes. He looked much the same as when they had last seen each other.

Salazar was classically handsome, but Sandro was a little less so. He wasn't unattractive, per say, but he lacked all of Salazar's elegance, and his facial proportions were not perfect like his brother's. He had brown eyes where Salazar's were grey, though they shared the same sandy-colored hair. Sandro's had grown out a little more, and it was darker now, the way Salazar's also turned when it was worn longer. He wasn't as tall as Salazar, and while he was of a perfectly acceptable weight and shape, he didn't have Salazar's lean, muscular build.

And he certainly couldn't hold a stern face the way Salazar could. Salazar looked upon the scene disdainfully.

"_You!_" blurted Sandro in alarm.

"Sandro. Spending Father's money well, I see. Not even going to wait until he's dead to squander your inheritance?"

Sandro tried to be bold. "It's not like it's going to run out."

_We'll see about that,_ thought Salazar. The girls were silent, but one of them was looking Salazar up and down, perhaps wondering if she could get additional pay out of him.

"Hardly the point, Sandro," said Salazar.

Sandro rolled his eyes indignantly, moving his hand up along the back of the whore in his lap. "You talk like you've never had a woman before, and we both know that would taste a lie."

"I didn't bring Muggle whores into my father's house!" growled Salazar.

One of the ladies frowned and piped up. "'Ay, what's that you're callin' us?"

"Only what you _are_, madam," said Salazar stiffly, regardless of whether she meant the word "whore" or "Muggle."

"What are you doing here, anyways?" demanded Sandro. His voice was unsteady. He was lashing out in anger, grasping at straws. "You're disowned! Father says, you're not allowed back here!"

Salazar drew his wand and leveled it with Sandro, who shrank back as though he had just seen a real snake. The Muggle girls looked puzzled, unaware of the wand's potential power.

"Tell me what I can and cannot do again, and I'll finish what I started a year ago." Sandro fell silent, hardly daring to breathe. Salazar continued. "Where's Father?"

"I-in his room. Where else? The doctors say he'll be gone soon."

Doctors. Salazar scoffed. He stared Sandro down for a moment before walking past him and through a door on the left side of the room. Soon he found himself at his father's double doors. A great serpent was carved into the polished wood, and silver serpent handles yielded entrance for Salazar.

He entered the master's chambers, a vast apartment. It was dimly lit, with most of the light coming from the fireplace. A huge four-poster bed commanded the space, green curtains drawn shut. Salazar heard slow, wheezy breathing. He strode across the room and pulled back the curtains.

There was Salvinius Slytherin, laying sick and dying. He looked older than he actually was, his hair and beard gone white. His face was gaunt and wan, eyes sunken. Salazar's nose wrinkled with distaste at the smell of the room. It was a stale, spoiled smell, the smell of sickness and lingering death.

Salvinius started at the sound of the curtains being drawn, and he opened his brown eyes. They widened upon seeing Salazar.

"_You!_" he rasped.

"Yes. Me. Your eldest son. Do I not even have a _name _in this house anymore?" growled Salazar.

"You're no son of mine anymore," said Salvinius bitterly, coughing a wheezy cough into a handkerchief.

"So you've said," muttered Salazar dryly.

Salvinius looked at his eldest with watery brown eyes. He propped himself up a little higher on his pillows. "You don't have children," he wheezed. "What is a man supposed to do when one son tries to murder the other, eh? A kinslayer is cursed among men."

Salazar seethed with anger, standing taller and closing his fists. "_Kinslayer?_" he repeated quietly, speaking through his teeth. His voice quivered slightly. "That _Squib _remains in this house and you want to talk to me about _kinslaying_?"

"Sandro is no murderer!"

"Your wife lies cold in the ground," said Salazar. "He is as far as I'm concerned. I never thought you would stand to see a murderer and a Squib carry your name."

Salvinius wagged a long, bony finger at Salazar. "Your mother _knew_ what she was doing. And stop calling your brother a Squib!"

"I call him what he is, but you will not see it! And it was not his place to _ask _it of Mother."

Salvinius opened his mouth to speak again, but his words were lost as a wheezing cough racked his chest. He hacked and coughed, and it seemed as thought he sheer force of coughing might break his fragile frame. Salazar narrowed his eyes in distaste.

"Have you not sought a proper healer?" he asked.

Salvinius waved his hand dismissively. "Muggle doctors, healers, there's nothing to be done by any of them."

So Salvinius Slytherin was dying. Salazar had suspected it would happen within the next few years. Some part of him acknowledged the approaching loss. Once, he had been Salazar's father. Once, Salazar had been a boy, eagerly learning magic from Salvinius. But those days were gone. They had argued often as Salazar grew, and his Lady mother often claimed fondly that it was because Salvinius and Salazar were so very much alike.

Salazar had believed this for many years. But the sight of his father now repulsed him. Salvinius had become weak after his wife's death, from coddling Sandro. Salazar's brother had poisoned the whole family, and now Salazar thought he and his father were as different as night and day.

So while some part of him acknowledged the loss, another part of him was glad.

"Sandro wont fail me," said Salvinius, and Salazar had a suspicion he was trying to convince himself. Salvinius turned his eyes away from Salazar, looking ahead into the darkness of the room. "He wont."

But Salazar knew better. He'd seen how desperately Salvinius had tried to coax any sign of magic out of Sandro, but to no avail. He'd even let Sandro try to use his wand, but there was nothing to be done. Salazar got all the talent, and for some time, Salazar felt sorry for his brother. But Sandro became bitter towards Salazar, and there had never been much affection between them.

Salazar summoned a chair from across the room with a wave of his hand. He sat at his father's bed and sighed. "Oh, Father," he said softly, reaching out to smooth his damp hair from his forehead. "Sandro will never be what we are. And whatever he may do with our fortune, it will never be as useful as what I will do with it."

Salvinius scoffed. "What _you'll _do with it? You won't get a penny of it."

"Oh, I beg to differ, father. You see, I've come here on business." He drew his wand and leaned forward, pointing it directly at his father's face. Salazar and Salvinius looked each other in the eye. "We're going to write a new will."

Salvinius looked from the wand to Salazar, fear shining in his watery eyes.

Salazar held his father's gaze and murmured, "_Imperio."_

* * *

><p>Salvinius Slytherin died eight days later.<p>

While waiting for this event to pass, Salazar spent most of his time in his room, or keeping his eye on Sandro. Sandro was unaware of Salazar's plans, but he knew Salazar must have returned for a purpose. The two of them were walking on a bed of needles, eyeing each other suspiciously. It was a game of caution and bluffing. Whenever Sandro crept too near to Salvinius' apartments, Salazar was there to give him a warning look. Sandro always backed down. The house elves were anxious as well. They knew Salvinius was angry with Salazar, but at the same time he was still Salvinius's eldest son. So they served Salazar as they always had, but Salazar knew they did so with severe anxiety, fearful of Salvinius' wrath.

When Lord Slytherin died, Salazar ordered him buried in the family plot, as had always been expected. Sandro witnessed the burial, and when it was done, Salazar went to stand by the site for a few moments, in silence. Then he turned around and went back inside, without a word.

He summoned his brother into what had been Salvinius' study. It was a grand room, with a heavy wooden desk and heavy book shelves, and heavy emerald draperies. It was an imposing room. As he waited, Salazar fingered a silver inkwell shaped like a coiled snake.

Sandro entered the study with a look of fury and indignation. The solid wooden door slammed open with a bang, and Sandro strode across the room to the desk.

"_You _dare summon _me? _From Father's desk?" he cried, fists clenching.

Salazar remained completely calm. "It's _my _desk now."

"It's _mine!_ Father named _me_ his heir!" Sandro insisted. Salazar was strongly reminded of an irate child.

"Sandro," he said, sitting back in the luxurious armchair. "There's only one thing that matters right now, and that it what it says on this piece of paper." Salazar lifted a piece of parchment and placed it at the front of the desk, pushing it towards Sandro.

Sandro glanced at it. "Father's will?" he observed, his voice flat.

"Yes. It says that I am Salvinius Slytherin's sole heir, that I am now the Lord of Slytherin Manor, and heir to all titles and assets that come with it. I am the sole authority of this estate and its fortunes."

Sandro's jaw was slack and his eyes widened with dread as Salazar spoke.

"As the second-born child, you will receive an appropriate percentage of the estate's gold—your portion of the inheritance—and nothing more. I will give you this gold and you will leave this estate, and not return. Ever."

Sandro faltered, pointing wildly at Salazar. "What did you do? You did something, that's not what the will said!" he yelled. "You—you used your magic!"

Salazar raised his eyebrows. "Prove it."

His brother seethed with anger, but his fear of Salazar was greater than his fury. They both knew Salazar had the wand, Salazar had the advantage. Sandro was at a loss for words.

"By morning, I expect you to be gone from this property. Do not come back. Do not ask me for anything."

Now there was fear in Sandro's eyes. His breathing quickened. "But…but what will I do? Where will I go?"

"That is up to you. When your gold runs out, that's it. So use it wisely. Buy a house. Or don't. Spend the money on Muggle whores until you've nothing left. Starve in the streets. I don't care. But you will be gone from this house by morning."

"You can't do this!" protested Sandro. "He was my father too! I have a right to live here!"

Salazar stood up, meeting his brother's gaze. "Then take it!"

Silence hung between them. Sandro didn't dare challenge his brother, and after a moment, he turned and hurried out of the room, furious.

He was gone the next morning.

* * *

><p>Salazar returned to Penfryn thirteen days after leaving. He'd spent five days alone at the Slytherin manor, pouring over records and making calculations. He'd gone personally to the family vault below the cellar to see what gold and fortunes were left to him, and what could go to the building of the school.<p>

He Apparated to the edge of the town in the late afternoon. The sky was clear and sunny, but the air was crisp and smelled like autumn. He walked past the little guild shops and houses, making his way towards Helga's house.

"Lord Slytherin," came a voice. Salazar paused and turned to see Leona emerging from the town stables. She wore a simple white dress, and her long dark hair was hanging wildly about her shoulders. Salazar paused and let her approach.

"Welcome back," she said.

"What are you doing at the stables?" he wondered.

She fell into stride with him as they walked down the main road.

"I was checking on your horse. You'd been gone for a while."

"Oh," said Salazar, surprised. "Thank you."

The girl looked up at him with her bright eyes. "I hope all went as you'd hoped? Back home?"

"It did," was all Salazar said. He strode quickly to the house, Leona following. She didn't pry with any further questions. She let him into the house, which was warm and already smelled of Helga's cooking for supper. Helga was cooking, her wand supervising more than one brewing pot, but she turned when she heard Salazar and Leona come in. Godric had already returned from seeing his grandfather, and was seated at the table with Rowena. They were playing cards.

Godric grinned when he saw Salazar. "Sal!"

"Welcome back!" said Helga, smiling. "Dinner will be ready in about an hour."

"Thank you, Helga."

Godric leaned across the table and patted the tabletop across from him, inviting Salazar to sit. "I hope you were successful as I was."

"I imagine so," said Salazar. He bowed his head and greeted Rowena politely. She smiled back. Salazar didn't sit down, but he put away his cloak and excused himself to the yard. Godric frowned with concern was he watched Salazar exit. Salazar was somewhat unsurprised when Godric emerged from the house to take a seat next to Salazar, looking out over the sheep fields.

Godric sat in the little wooden chair beside Salazar and looked at him, frowning.

"Sal, what's happened?" he asked.

Salazar glanced at Godric. He was satisfied with the way things had gone with his father and brother. In fact, he felt a great deal of satisfaction, having finally gained the upper hand. But his interaction with Salvinius and Sandro had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Nothing I didn't expect," Salazar answered.

Godric opened his mouth to speak, as he usually lead with speech, but decided against it. Instead, he sat quietly beside Salazar as Salazar did with him. They were silent for some time, watching the sheep in the fields as they grazed.

"My father is dead," said Salazar.

Godric looked back at him, quiet at first. "I'm sorry, Sal."

Salazar shrugged. "Don't be. I'm not so much."

"What happened?"

"He was ill," said Salazar.

"That's how my mother died."

"I'm sorry to hear that….she was probably more pleasant than my father." Salazar offered a grin.

Godric laughed a little. "She was lovely." He paused for a moment. "Are you Lord of the manor now?"

"I am."

"Did you leave the manor to your brother?"

"No…I think I shall sell it. There's nothing there for me."

Godric nodded slowly and thoughtfully. "Well…if all goes according to plan…we'll make a new home."

They sat in silence, as they were known to do from time to time. Salazar felt more relaxed. Penfryn was warm and welcoming, where the Slytherin manor had been cold and dark and formal, and Godric…Godric had an infectious personality, Salazar was discovering. Salazar found that his bitterness towards Sandro and his father was ebbing away.

They joined Helga, Rowena, the children, and the house elves for dinner. Despite the growing number of residents at Helga's house, the table never seemed crowded.


	9. At an Impasse

_Author's note: Oh my god I'm sorry, it's another Godric chapter. I promise the next one will be Rowena!_

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><p><strong>AND IN THEIR TRIUMPH DIE<strong>

**chapter nine  
><strong>**At An Impasse**

They wanted to draft a proper proposal for the Council. They all knew that what they were suggesting was unheard of, and it was a daunting task. When they went to the Council, they wanted to have a thorough plan for the school. Godric had every intention of following through with their plan regardless of what the Council said, but it would be nice to have their support. He had attended Council meetings on behalf of the Gryffindor family since his father's death…it was a weak organization, with little power these days—both politically and magically. But in a time of persecution, Godric felt it was necessary to have some sort of community support system, some sort of stronghold for the Wizarding community.

Godric, Salazar, Helga, and Rowena had three weeks to prepare, and evenings at Penfryn found the four of them sitting at Helga's table, sharing tea and wine and discussing everything from accommodations for the school to class plans.

They all enjoyed discussing what sort of things they ought to teach their students…and Helga's refugees were just as interested. Often Helga would rise from her seat and point to the stairs, where one or more of the children were eavesdropping. She would sternly command them back to bed and they would scurry up the stairs, groaning in disappointment. Sometimes Helga let Evander and Leona help with the organization and recording of notes, but it made the younger children quite jealous.

The Four were up quite late one night to establish the basic foundations of the school itself. The more they talked about it, the more they felt that they would need nothing short of a castle, a fortress. While this seemed daunting, Salazar kept insisting that if they were going to do this, they weren't going to do it half way. He and Godric assured the ladies that their funds could support the construction of a castle…but they needed an architect. Someone with magical talent—they didn't want to wait on Muggle construction. They decided students would live at the school during study terms, and they would be separated more or less by gender and age.

They spent nearly a full week deciding what classes they would teach at the school, and who would teach these classes. There was a good deal of inadvertent flattering of one another, and some agonizingly-honest self-evaluation. At long last there was a rough agreement:

Clearly there should be classes for some of the most fundamental and widespread uses of magic, such as Charms and Potions. Godric, Salazar, and Rowena all felt that Helga should look after potions, since she was so proficient at it, and Helga thought that potions could not be fully understood without some sort of knowledge of Herbology. She offered to teach this as well. Helga convinced Rowena that she was perfectly talented at Charms, and Rowena should teach it.

Rowena agreed, but only if she could also teach some very fundamental lessons such as reading, writing and Arithmancy. Many of their students might come to them without the ability to read and write, and at the very least, they should have those life skills. The four of them decided that perhaps some of these topics could be covered in just one or two classes, and put the matter aside to clarify later.

They all wanted to include lessons in basic magical theory, feeling it was important for students to understand the fundamentals—and the mental and physiological aspects of magic, but they were undecided as to the best way to present this subject.

There was a slightly wary and lengthy discussion about the matter of Dark Arts. Helga and Rowena had almost no experience in the matter, and looked to Godric and Salazar. Helga was somewhat hesitant to have it as a subject at all, but Godric and Salazar both supported it, saying the students needed to understand it so they could defend themselves if necessary. Helga agreed on that point. Godric looked to Salazar and they awkwardly dove into a discussion about their own range of knowledge on the subject. They'd both read about the craft, they'd both encountered Dark Arts in combat...but could either of them teach it? They entertained the idea of possibly just establishing a class on combat and incorporating defenses against the Dark Arts, but in the end they became two separate subjects. Salazar volunteered to teach a Defense Against the Dark Arts course, and Godric would teach a dueling and combat class. They both agreed to collaborate with one another on both subjects.

It was also settled that Godric was the best choice to teach Transfiguration, but he requested some study time with Rowena and Salazar on basic alchemy before he started. None of them felt they had enough knowledge about magical creatures to teach a class, and the subject was put on the wayside for the time being. This led to a debate on whether or not they should bring in outside teachers, and this was also left to be decided upon later.

Then a very important matter was brought up: how were they going to find magical children to offer a place at the school? And what sort of students were they going to accept?

Helga furrowed her brow when the question was raised. "Why, _all _of them. All magical children that we can."

"All of them?" repeated Salazar.

"Well, why not?"

Salazar ran his hand over his mouth, his grey eyes on the tabletop. He was choosing his words carefully. "What we're offering is extremely valuable…I feel it should be somewhat exclusive."

There was a contemplative pause, and Rowena tilted her head thoughtfully. "Well…it should be any students who are intelligent enough for the learning, aye? Students who really…_desire_ to learn what we have to teach them."

Godric sat back in his chair, thinking that over. They both had a point. The Four of them were providing an opportunity that many young witches and wizards would give their wand arm for. They'd had discussions already about the issue of secrecy and persecution…if witches and wizards were to become more learned, more powerful…they would have to acknowledge their talents and risk Muggle discrimination.

But it should be worth it. If the students _really _wanted to learn, they would think it was worth the risk. "Any students who are brave enough to take this on."

"Brave enough?" repeated Salazar.

Godric put his fingertip to the table to punctuate his words. "If we do this, if we ask children to leave their homes and come to learn from us…we're asking them to officially leave life in the Muggle society. To acknowledge _what they are_. That's going to take courage. If they can face that choice, they can do anything."

Helga nodded slowly. "That is true."

"I can solve that problem," said Sal. "We should take only those of pure blood. From the old families."

Godric frowned. "What? Why?"

"That's preposterous! That would rule out almost every one of those children upstairs!" argued Helga.

"I'm not saying right away," reasoned Salazar. "And I'm certainly not saying to exclude your children, Helga. But it's something we should focus on."

Godric was looking at Salazar hard now, surprised to hear this. Suddenly he felt daunted in a different way; he had a strange feeling that they had encountered something bad in their plans. "Why?" he asked again.

Godric, Helga, and Rowena were all looking at Salazar, who continued to explain. "We know the children of pure-blooded families will have magical talent. We can identify them. We also know that their families will most likely consent to them coming to the school. What good is it to teach Muggle-born children, who are just going to return to Muggle families and marry Muggles, and not even use their magic? Or have it snuffed out of them? If we're investing in magical education, we should be doing so with those students most likely to use it and to help promote magical capability amongst our kind."

"And what about children like Evander and Elyssa, and Shireen?" demanded Godric. "What about all of the young witches and wizards born to Muggles, who will never understand their own talents? Who will never know what they are?"

Salazar met Godric's eyes and spread his hands. "Their lives won't change. It's not ideal, but that's how we're going to preserve _magic._"

Godric shook his head, jaw slack. "Salazar…I don't…what's the _difference_? What's the difference between a wizard who is Muggle-born and a wizard who is not?"

"Their Muggle blood is the difference!"

"And that makes them inferior?" said Godric, voice rising.

"Perhaps not in talent," said Salazar. "But it does in blood."

Godric was angry now, like he never thought he would be with Salazar. Helga was frowning like they'd never seen before, and Rowena had a guarded look on her face. She shook her head.

"That's awful, Salazar," she said quietly.

Salazar turned a hard gaze to hers. "Maybe so. But it's true." Rowena did not shrink back, but she did not propagate an argument with Salazar. Godric knew how imposing Salazar's gaze could be, but he wasn't one to back down.

Godric hit his hand to the table, making them all look back at him. "I'll be damned if we exclude any magical child just because of who their family is—because of matters beyond their control!" he barked, pointing a finger severely at Salazar. "And as long as _my _fortune is going into this project I will _not _allow students to be turned away because of their _birth_!"

Salazar shook his head. "You're letting your emotions govern you, not your logic."

And then Godric was on his feet. "I'm letting my _decency_ govern me, Salazar. We will _not _turn students away from this school."

Salazar looked away from Godric, to his goblet of wine. He sighed and drained the cup before rising to his feet as well. "I see I am overruled in this," he said. "And since having a bad taste in one's mouth leads to little in the way of productive conversation, I'll bid you good night."

He turned and left the house, stepping into the night and closing the door behind him.

Helga frowned, concerned. "Is he…leaving?"

Godric said nothing, but followed Salazar out of the house, scowling.

Helga and Rowena were left alone in the kitchen, the air heavy with bad feelings. Helga drained her own cup of wine, shaking her head.

"Bugger that," she said. "I'll take the lot of them, and teach them all the same."

Godric stormed after Salazar, who was strolling towards the sleeping village. He heard Godric behind him, however, and turned to face him.

"I didn't know you were of like mind with the Galts," said Godric coldly.

Salazar bristled, his eyes flashing. "The Galts were murderous and cruel," he growled. "And they wasted their gifts. I am _not _those men."

"But you agree with them? You think Muggles and Muggle-borns are inferior?"

Salazar was thoughtful for a moment. "I think…they're different."

Godric was flooded with an immense disappointment, a hurt, even. He felt foolish and naïve…he'd thought he'd found a companion, he'd thought he'd built a team that could actually make their ideas a reality….

But another part of him argued back. He knew the sort of person Salazar was, even if he didn't know every detail. Salazar was not cruel. There was something…some reason…

"Where is this coming from, Salazar?" he asked, voice softening. "Why are you…_afraid_ of teaching Muggle-borns?"

Salazar was silent, and even in the darkness, Godric could see that his expression was hard. "Sal—"

"Because I don't want us to die out."

Godric was quiet this time, unsure of how to respond to that. "What do you mean, die out?" he asked after a few moments.

Salazar looked back at him, stepping closer. "What do you think is going to happen if we encourage Muggle-borns to mix with us? What do you think happens when Muggle blood mixes with magical blood?"

Godric frowned. "Nothing. Some people are born magical, some aren't."

Salazar shook his head, pushing his hair out of his face. It was growing a little longer than when Godric had first met him, and was now a very dark sort of blond, almost brown. Godric pushed him.

"I heard it said that your own grandmother was a Muggle. And you're just fine. Is that true?"

"My brother is a Squib," said Salazar. The words stumbled from his lips, as though they were difficult to say.

"A Squib?"

"My father was a wizard. My mother was a witch. But my brother doesn't have a drop of magic in him. Not at all."

Another silence hung between them. Godric was surprised, and he could tell this was not something Salazar wished to divulge. He'd hardly ever spoken of his family before now.

Godric said gently, "Sal…that's just an oddity…"

"It's because my grandmother's Muggle blood runs in his veins!" insisted Salazar. His eyes narrowed. "My mother and father tried _so hard_ to coax out his magical talent, but he had none. My father never wanted to admit it. Not even at his death, he would not see it. He was hard on my brother…my mother said he pushed him _too_ hard. She always doted on Sandro, and Sandro begged her for months and months to try different spells, to try to find some way of bestowing her magic upon him…She loved him, she would do anything for her poor little Squib son. So she found a spell. Blood magic, meant to pass her abilities into Sandro…. But the magic was too advanced, too unstable. It rebounded and killed her."

Godric stared at Salazar, quiet and grave.

"When I came into the room there was blood everywhere. On the walls, on the rug, on Sandro…I got my hands around his throat and might have killed him too if my father hadn't stopped me. He screamed at me for attacking my brother, even after seeing his wife dead on the floor. I was disowned and ordered off of the estate." Salazar shook his head, his fingers twitching at the memory, as though they remembered closing around Sandro's throat.

"Then…how did you…?"

Salazar looked back up at him. "How did I acquire my inheritance? My father was weak. Dying. I had the will changed before he passed. I named myself heir once more."

"And your brother?"

"Exiled, as I was."

Godric frowned a little. But he thought of his own mother, and wondered what kind of fury he might have felt if someone were personally responsible for her death… And he could tell that Salazar was sincere in his concerns about the mixing of Muggle and magical blood. Godric truly thought cases like Sandro must be rarities, but he saw how anxious the thought made Salazar, he understood why. Most of all, Godric hurt for his friend.

Godric stepped closer to Sal, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder. Salazar looked up at him, and he saw something on Salazar's face…perhaps relief.

"I hear your worries, Sal," said Godric. "And if someone had caused my mother's death, I…" he let the words trail off, shaking his head. Then he met Salazar's gaze once more. "I can't promise it'll be perfect. But are you still with us, Sal?"

Salazar put his hand over Godric's, sighing tiredly. "Of course I am. I told you I would see this through. I'm just…concerned. And not just about the school…."

Godric smiled. "Don't worry yourself, Sal. Trust me. I know what I'm doing."

Salazar rolled his eyes and gave a small smile, the way Godric knew he would. "Of course you do."


	10. The Wizards' Council

_Author's Note: __ WOW it's been way too long. Sorry for the delay in updating! I had been working on a screenplay for a friend's thesis since the summer. Finally finished the damn thing. And then this chapter was a serious pain in the ass! Hopefully I'll be moving right along to the next chapter soon. Hogwarts is coming! A few notes:_

_This Wizards' Council is the precedent for the more official Ministry of Magic. I figured I'd maintain the longstanding tradition of Hogwarts being at odds with the bureaucracy ;)_

_VOCAB: __Ériu = old word for what is now Ireland; Cymru = old word for what is now Wales; Ri = an old Irish Gaelic title, equivalent to "lord"_

_Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>AND IN THEIR TRIUMPH DIE<strong>

**chapter ten  
><strong>**The Wizards' Council**

The little stone mug of tea was warm and comforting against Rowena's hands. Her eyes felt picky and tired as they stared at the quill lying inconspicuously on the table. It had been made from the feather of a tawny owl; it was somewhere between the layer of sleek top feathers and the downy, fluffy bottom layer. The tip of the pale feather was wispy and soft. Next to the feather was a spare bit of parchment, scribbled with ink in some spots. Her own name had been written once or twice, but aside from that, there was nothing discernable inscribed there.

_Perhaps a different kind of feather…_ she mused tiredly, sipping at her tea. She had been staying up late, but even still, she couldn't help waking up early. Rowena was an early riser by nature, and a few late nights weren't like to break the habit. When she set her mind to something, she became fixated. She was sure she could make this quill function the way she wanted it to…if it was charmed _just_ right…. In the meantime, Helga's house-elves had been staying up extra late and rising extra early, anxious to serve Rowena should she need anything. She was always insisting that they needn't wait up on her, but they rarely took heed.

She was determined to make her charm work before the gathering of the Wizards' Council. Godric emphasized over and over that they were going to make the school a reality, whether the Council approved of it or not….but all four of them hoped to be taken seriously nonetheless.

Rowena was back at her wandwork when Helga came downstairs. They shared a bed while Rowena was at Penfryn, and Rowena felt like they were girls again, when they used to hide under the sheets, giggling and chattering in hushed voices, and the elves of Glenhouse would sternly remind them that their fathers expected them to be asleep. Their conversations hadn't changed much, Rowena reflected…now, though, they were more engrossed in magic than ever before. And of course, they discussed their new partners.

"See, I told you," Helga had said on Rowena's first night at Penfryn. "Two handsome, perfect gentlemen."

Rowena grinned and rolled her eyes. "Aye, they've a bit too much 'gentleman' in them for my taste," she chuckled.

"What, like they don't chirp their 'milord's and 'milady's at Glenhouse too?"

"Yes but…it's a propriety, we don't…flaunt it about!"

Helga rolled onto her back and laughed into her hand. "It's the south, my dear, they take their 'milord's' and 'milady's' very seriously here."

"Clearly."

She liked them well enough, though. Salazar often tried to be grounded and serious, but Rowena had noticed that he laughed more than he cared to admit, particularly when he and Godric became entrenched in some banter. Godric was always quick to laugh. In fact, Rowena noticed, he generally led with his loud mouth. Helga thought they were both wonderful—she always saw the best in people, and Rowena was glad for it. It softened her own brittle shell.

"Still at it?" inquired Helga when she came downstairs. She was tying her thick, honey-colored hair into a bun, and she peered over the shoulders of the house-elves, who had started breakfast.

"I'm so _close_," moaned Rowena, rubbing at her tired eyes. She could animate the quill as she directed, and had managed to get it to copy dictated words…and she had begun to convince it to at least write down the names of all the magical humans in the house. _Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, Shireen Walwyn, Evander Edgebrook, Godric Gryffindor…._

"Writing me a letter?"

Rowena's eyes darted up to see Godric strolling through the kitchen. He was dressed in his usual leather surcoat, the fierce lion of his house roaring at the left breast and shoulder. Underneath, his shirt was a deep, deep red, almost black. It made his grey-blue eyes seem bright, and his auburn hair appear dark brown. He bowed to Rowena, as he always did. Helga had insisted he dispel with the tedious titles where she was concerned, and he had finally given up; but Rowena truly _was _a Lady in rank, and he seemed determined to address her properly, at least.

"Good morning, my lady."

"Good morning, Lord Gryffindor."

He strode across the room to hover over Helga's shoulder, peering at the pans that were magically preparing their morning fast. Helga swatted him away as always, and he retreated to the table, that mischievous grin of his turning up the corner of his mouth. He sat himself at the corner next to Rowena, looking at the quill that was scrawling away.

"Are you going to tell us what it's for, my lady?" he asked, resting his chin in his hand.

Rowena had dodged prying questions about her little project, dismissing it as nothing of terrible consequence. She wasn't entirely sure _why_, except that…she would feel quite foolish if it didn't work.

"It's not ready," she said, not for the first time.

Helga looked over her shoulder. "Oh, go on, Rowena, I'm starting to get curious myself."

Rowena bit her lip—a bad habit of hers; her father always gently insisted it wasn't ladylike.

"Well...," she began, "I think I can find a way for us to find prospective students."

Godric raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"Yes, but…I'll tell you if I can actually get it to work." She was too focused right now to begin explaining it to the others.

Godric rolled his eyes and leaned back on the bench, but he was entirely distracted when Helga brought him a plate of eggs, sweet ham, and warm bread to break his fast. Rowena rolled her eyes with a little smile. This lordling could certainly put away some food…she was quite certain that when Godric chose his Lady of Gryffindor Manor, the lucky lady would be Helga's cooking.

Trinket the house-elf brought Rowena her plate, and she thanked him graciously. Helga and the house-elves joined them at the table.

"Where's Sal?" asked Helga. "I'm surprised you beat him downstairs, Godric."

"Oh, he woke before I, make no mistake," insisted Godric as he dove into his food. "He's just preoccupied…_reading_ or some nonsense."

Rowena fought the urge to roll her eyes again.

But the smell of breakfast soon lured Salazar and the children down from the sleeping quarters upstairs. The table was soon the site of much eating and chatter, and Rowena cleared her workspace with a wave of her wand.

There was a slight fuss in the house leading up to the day of the Council. The children were curious and eager to know everything they could about the development of the project. Evander and Quinn orchestrated a semi-convincing and very entertaining campaign on why they should be allowed to go to the Council with the adults, but Helga insisted they remain behind. They couldn't bring all of the children with them, and it wouldn't be fair if only one or two of them was allowed to go.

Godric became more and more serious as the day of departure approached. He prowled with a focused determination. Rowena found herself mentally reviewing a checklist of arguments over and over in her head—she thought about it so much the words became dull in her mind and she worried she would not be able to be convincing at all.

Then on the night before the Council, the charm she had been developing seemed to work.

"Oh!" she cried suddenly, breaking the silence by which the others had been reading and relaxing. They all turned to look at her as she leapt to her feet, leaning over her quill. The feather was scrawling neatly and deliberately across her spare parchment. "I've got it!" she declared with a sense of victory. "Of course, how foolish of me…a wand movement that crosses one's self dictates reactive state of magic…and I suppose this _is_ reactive, reactive to birth…"

"Er…sorry?" muttered Godric, as they approached the table. They all leaned over the parchment and watched. Leona was still awake and she joined them as well.

In the candlelight, the quill was writing a tidy list of names. First those of all the children in the house, and then others—strangers.

_Emilia Elsey….  
>Kieran Donovan….<em>

_Callum Morteir….._

"Who are they?"

Rowena grinned broadly, feeling a swell of satisfaction. "If I've done it correctly…these are the names of children born with magical talent. These are our students!"

There was a beat of silence, filled only by the slow scratching of the enchanted quill, as they all processed what they were seeing.

Salazar said, "You gave the quill decisive properties?"

Rowena nodded. "Yes…it should be choosing those already born, those ready for learning…but then it should record the birth of all witches and wizards in Britain. I may have to adjust the charm a little, but that will be easier as it will only be recording births instead of determining pre-existing persons…."

"That's brilliant," Salazar mused, watching the quill with interest.

Godric flashed his wild grin. "Perfect! A proper owl should be able to reach them by their name."

"We'll need a few more owls," Salazar muttered.

"I wonder if they'll all come. If they'll all want to learn," Leona said curiously. Salazar glanced across the table at her, and then back down at the quill.

"It might be hard for some of them to come…especially if they're Muggle-born," said Helga.

Godric nodded. "It should be their choice, and not their parents'. The owls should go directly to the children."

Helga pushed her curiosities aside and beamed at Rowena. "It's perfect, Rowena! I didn't even think to try something like this."

Rowena felt her cheeks flush a little and she smiled, deeply satisfied that her work had finally yielded success. It was a complicated little charm, despite the simplicity of its task. And more importantly, it was one step closer to their goal.

Her rest was fitful that night. She had never attended a Council meeting—that was her father's place, as a wizard from an established family. She was curious about the council members, and how much they knew of magic. She'd never heard of any of their deeds, nor had she read any published texts of theirs—mostly, it seemed, they were for the law. Rowena had to admit, with fewer and fewer trained witches and wizards in the world, part of her thought perhaps the Council was becoming obsolete and unnecessary.

They Disapparated together the following afternoon, Rowena grasping Helga's hand. Godric and Salazar lead the Apparation, since they had each been to the Council before. It was always held in a central site in Britain, away from Muggle villages and Muggles' eyes. When the world popped back into focus and Rowena found her feet on solid ground, she found herself in a small meadow. The grass was short and yellow, and the air smelled fresh and clear. It was a cool day, and the sun's light seemed thin. Rowena wore her best set of robes, sporting the Ravenclaw colors of deep blue and bronze. Her black hair she had carefully gathered up into a neat, twisted knot. At her throat was a finely-braided copper chain, and it glinted prettily even in the weak sunlight. She looked every inch a Lady.

At the center of the little meadow was a great table in the fashion of a ring, outlined with stone chairs. It was relatively plain to the eye, but commanded attention nonetheless. There were already a few older wizards present, and more were popping into view. They were punctual, it seemed. It became apparent that everyone had a particular place at the table, but there were a few seats available for guest speakers.

"This is your father's seat," Salazar told her, indicating one of the stone chairs.

"Thank you, Salazar." Rowena slipped into the spot, and Helga took a seat next to her. Godric and Salazar each took their own seats.

The round stone table seemed heavy with the weight of the people who sat around it—seasoned old wizards and lords, all of them ripe with authority. They were stern people with stern faces and the look of those who believe what they do is important. Rowena knew them by name only, thanks to her father. They looked at her with mild interest. She and Helga were two of only three women present at the stone table. The other was Lady Eadignes, an old witch with crinkled, leathery skin. Her robes were worn and faded under her ragged shawl of many-colored fabrics. Her thinning hair was dark grey with some lighter tones creeping in, flushing across her scalp. Dark eyes glinted from a thin haze of smoke, as she chewed thoughtfully at the end of a small pipe. Rowena was curious of the woman who had held her position at this table of men for so many years. But Eadignes' gaze was sharp and Rowena did not let her own linger, fearful of being thought rude.

Helga sat beside Rowena, looking around at their company curiously. Godric sat beside her, and Salazar to his right. They were comfortable at this table, Rowena noticed. They looked like they belonged there, discussing great matters with great men. There was a certain ease about them—a sense of business. Rowena quelled a lonely feeling in her gut, that she was just a minor Lady from the country and did not belong there.

She took a moment to study the table itself. It was older than some of the wizards who sat at it, made from limestone and spotted with lichen and moss. The dark stone had long, straight grooves chiseled into it, pointing towards the center of the circular table from each stone seat. She brushed her finger along the slit, curious.

The Speaker was the oldest councilmember present, and his name was Lord Stidolf. He was ancient, lacking both teeth and hair and abundant with leathery wrinkles. His jaw was square, and the leanness his old age had given him exaggerated the look of it. He had small, misty eyes that seemed unfocused. Yet for his exceptional number of years, he sat quite straight. When he spoke to bring the Council to heed, his voice was difficult to hear. It was so deep and wheezy that the table had to hush in order to make out his words. Rowena had never heard a voice quite like it, and she wondered if he had suffered some sort of injury or malformation of the throat. It seemed to take great energy for him to make his voice be heard, and the table fell silent.

He opened the session with a recitation of the date and the names of those present. There were the lords Acewellen, Grendel, Rand, Lord Salazar now representing the House of Slytherin, Lords Sener, Breckwell, and Gryffindor, two representatives from Ériu called Rí Ó Canain and Rí Ó Firghil. Then Helga introduced herself as a guest from Cymru, and Speaker Stidolf announced that Rowena was standing in for her father, representing the House of Ravenclaw.

Rowena was struck by the age gaps that spread across the table. The two Celts looked to be in their thirties, but most of the council members were far, far older than herself, Helga, Godric, and Salazar. They were whitebeards. It struck Rowena that her party was the rising generation of this Council, new blood waiting to push out the old weeds.

"Are we all accounted for?" Stidolf waited for a few beats of silence. Longer, Rowena thought, than exactly necessary before announcing, "Then Council is in session."

The council members each produced their wands and placed them in the grooves on the table before them. Rowena wondered if she should do the same, since she was not a regular member of the council. A quick glance to her right revealed that Helga had displayed her wand, so Rowena followed suit. She hoped this was correct, and wondered what would be more offensive: if she failed to replicate this sign of respect or if she mimicked it without being properly qualified. But no one gave her a glance, so she assumed she had committed no solecism. The table now had spires of varying woods and shapes radiating out from its center. Rowena noted the different types around her. Helga's she knew well. Stidolf's was thin, but she suspected it was sturdy. Old Eadignes' was like a gnarled root. The Celts' had strange markings carved into them, and Rowena wondered if they were strictly aesthetic or if the runes bore magical properties. Perhaps she would get a chance to ask them about it later.

Stidolf reviewed the matters that had been discussed during the previous season at Council, which included talks of the impending Danish invasion of Britain, and increased persecution of magic folk. There had also been some talk, apparently, of laws regarding house-elf ownership, but no one present seemed to want to give it much consideration.

"Who among us wishes to bring a motion to the floor?" wheezed Stidolf at last.

Godric stood up, along with Lord Acewellen and Lord Rand.

"The council recognizes Lord Brymar of House Acewellen," said Stidolf.

Acewellen was an old man with white hair, but a dignified look about him. _The look of a soldier,_ thought Rowena. _Godric has it, too._

Acewellen reported what many of them already knew or at least had heard—that conflict between the Muggle King Aethelred of Britain and the Danish king, Sweyn, were becoming more heated. Raids from Danish sailors were common along the coastlines, and had been so for generations. Years ago, King Aethelred had ordered the execution of all Danes present in Britain. Rowena remembered it, though she had been a girl still. She remembered that her father had been angry with the decree, and thankful he knew no Danes on his lands. She wondered if he was truly ignorant of any, or if he simply pretended to be to avoid murder.

"Sweyn's aggressions speak of nothing short of invasion," declared Acewellen. "It is time to decide where wizardfolk will stand when he comes to Britain."

"We stand where we are. It's a Muggle war," said Lord Grendel languidly.

"It's a _British_ war," Godric retorted. "Are we not Britons, all?" He was leaning forward, elbows folded on the table.

There was a bark of agreement from Acewellen and the Celts, who clapped their palms to the tabletop in support. Their island was under full invasion from Norsemen, and they joined the conversation by insisting the wizarding world take action.

Rowena quickly saw that the issue was more complicated than anyone was able to conclude. It was more than a question of whether or not wizards should fight, because that inherently brought up the question of whether or not wizards should live openly amongst Muggles. The conversation became lively around the table, though Rowena and Helga mostly listened, and Lady Eadignes just smirked and mouthed her smoldering pipe. Stidolf did his best to focus the various issues that were argued, but they were so intertwined that it was hard for the conversation to remain on one topic for long.

Godric was on his feet soon, and he fervently declared that if the King should call the country to arms, he would fight an invasion of Britain.

Lord Grendel, with his round nose and robes of brown and black, was quite vocal. He continued to steer the conversation to the idea of the magical community coming out to the Muggles, _especially_ if war was coming. "Why do we sit and talk of Aethelred and Sweyn? I answer to no Muggle king and I'll not sit and hide with my wand up my arse!" he growled. "If any Muggle—Briton or Dane—brings war to us, it's no secret who could settle the matter. We shouldn't even be _having_ this conversation!"

Eadignes cackled softly and spoke for the first time. "Go ahead and stick your wand up your arse, Grendel, and we'll have some peace while you try to fish it out."

Rowena didn't have time to be shocked by the woman's language, as the conversation rolled on without taking heed of Eadignes' comment.

"You speak of using magic against Muggles?" Helga blurted out, looking at Grendel in alarm

"That will not be," said Acewellen. "It _must not be."_

Salazar spoke up. "There is no place for us in their world. It's not our war. They don't _want_ us—that becomes clearer and clearer with every witch and wizard they put to the stake."

Godric looked at him. "But war will come to us whether we are part of Muggle society of not," he reasoned.

"Lord Slytherin is right—we must enter a state of secrecy from the Muggle world! There must be separation!" said Lord Rand. "To protect our people from the stake, and from the Muggle king's war!"

Salazar and Lord Sener pounded the table in agreement.

It was a debate that chased its tail for nearly two hours. Rowena found herself shifting on her stone chair, weary of sitting on the hard surface. It didn't take her long to realize the debate would go nowhere—not with such vocal personalities all eager for supremacy. The Celts were desperate for support, and like Lord Grendel wanted to come out with their magic should the need arise. Rowena could at least understand their reasoning, with their people in danger. Grendel was pushing the tensions further by going so far as to suggest deposing King Aethelred from rule, or at the very least severing from him. There was a heavy-hearted and weary conversation regarding burnings by Muggles of witches and wizards, to which Salazar, Rand, and Sener's response was that the community should separate into complete secrecy. Lord Breckwell was almost as old as Stidolf, and he remained silent. Rowena wondered if he was asleep.

It seemed they were well into the night when Stidolf banged a heavy staff for order, and declared that the issue would not be resolved at this time. Should the political climate change drastically, they would convene again to discuss what must be done. He opened the floor for the next issue at last, and Lord Acewellen looked dampened and irritated. Lord Sener was called upon, and he officially proposed a statute of secrecy for wizardkind. He gained support from Salazar, Lord Rand, and Eadignes. Rowena took the opportunity to consider the matter, and found herself agreeing. Their school, for instance…it could not be known to Muggles. It would not be safe. Was this true of the rest of the wizarding world? Salazar rose to his feet and insisted that this would insure the protection of both Muggles and Wizards. Magical folk would be free to live amongst their own communities, and Muggle and Wizard dealings would be cut to a minimum.

Stidolf put the matter to vote, and the motion was not carried. It needed more than half the majority to pass. Lord Sener and Salazar seemed unsurprised, but disappointed all the same.

And then Godric was acknowledged to the floor. Rowena watched as he stood up, squaring his broad shoulders. He struck an impressive figure, full of youth and vitality compared to some of the older lords around him, who had seen so many years. The table was quiet once more, watching him expectantly. Eadignes puffed a little cloud of thoughtful smoke. Grendel looked at Godric shrewdly. Rowena felt a twinge of dislike for him, and suspected he had already made up his mind about whatever it was that Godric had to say.

"I bring this proposal to the Council along with Lord Slytherin, Lady Ravenclaw, and our esteemed partner Helga Hufflepuff," he began, gesturing to them each in turn. Helga smiled a little—excited, Rowena knew. Salazar looked cool and collected, as always, patiently waiting for Godric to be their mouthpiece. Rowena's chest tightened in anticipation, suddenly nervous. She worried now, thinking of how foolish this would sound to venerable lords who talked of war.

But when Godric spoke, it didn't sound foolish. His eyes were alight with determination, and there was a conviction in his voice that Rowena was positive she could have never achieved. He knew how to speak to this Council, and he had the support of the other three now, unlike the very first time he had pitched it to them. Godric spoke of the preservation of their arts, of a place of sanctuary for young witches and wizards who would otherwise be left on their own, their talent unrealized—perhaps persecuted for it. He spoke of the advancement and study of the magical arts, in a way that had not been done for centuries. Their basic plan was explained, and Godric concluded by expressing their desire for the Council's support in the matter.

There was silence after his words.

Rowena glanced around the table, anxiety mounting, wishing someone would speak. For many moments, there was only the whispering of the torches that ringed the table, the tittering of insects in the grass.

Then Acewellen leaned forward, tilting his head and finally asking, "And where did you wish to conduct this learning?" Rowena was relieved that he seemed interested, and the question was more out of curiosity than criticism.

"We want to build an establishment," said Godric. "In the north."

"We have already seen to its funding," Salazar offered, as though he knew the question was coming.

"Though, as we said, we seek the Council's support," Helga said, wringing her hands slightly.

Lord Grendel spoke at last. "Why should this council support such a folly?" he scoffed. Godric turned on him with a steely look.

"It is for the benefit of all our kind."

Grendel folded his arms over his chest, giving a bark of a laugh. "And who's going to run this institution-you?"

Godric bristled, and he seemed to grow. "Yes," he said brazenly. "The four of us. It is to be our school, governed by us. But we would not put such an important act into motion without the Council's heed."

Rowena found her voice, meekly blurting out, "We have all agreed to teach the children ourselves. Each of us has strengths that we—"

But Grendel scowled and waved a hand towards her, looking around the table. "You may be Lord Ravenclaw's daughter, madam, but that alone does not qualify you to govern matters that should be left to the Council."

Now Rowena bristled, her collar flushing with anger. "My own learning is what qualifies me, Sir," she said coldly, her voice stronger now.

Salazar had been reclined in his chair, his hand resting to his chin. Now he sat up a little and spoke pleasantly. "My Lords, I believe you should already be familiar with the Lady Rowena's work. It was she who published the treatise on the classification of spells that was sent to us last season."

All heads turned to look at her now, and she flushed again, half in embarrassment at being the focus of attention and half in pride and satisfaction.

"You wrote that, my lady?" asked Acewellen.

"Yes, my lord."

Grendel snorted. "She wrote some scribbling about spells, what of it? Does Lord Ravenclaw's daughter make the law of Glenhouse now?"

Rowena met his gaze, a streak of defensiveness rushing through her. "Doubtless, I could never hope to match the knowledge of the Council. Perhaps you would provide me with some notes on the physiological benefits of the production of charms? I am ignorant of the ways of great wizards."

The words were out of her mouth before she realized. She flushed at her collar as Lord Grendel's eyes flashed with fury. But then she saw that Godric was smirking with unmistakable satisfaction. Beside him, Salazar was seated, casually hiding a grin behind his knuckles. Still, she was relieved when Stidolf pounded his staff on the stone table and redirected the conversation, before Lord Grendel could retort.

"The Lady Rowena speaks with Lord Ravenclaw's voice at this Council," he rasped. "Are there questions for Lord Gryffindor's motion?"

Acewellen spoke again, bringing the conversation back to a rational level. "You will teach the children of wizarding families?"

"We will teach all magical children who choose to come," said Helga.

Lord Rand was frowning. "And what do you seek from the Council in this matter?"

Godric looked around. "Whatever the Council is willing to give. Support in organizing the students. Funding. Protection."

Lord Rand shook his head. "We're on the verge of open war," he said solemnly. "As it stands now, wizards and witches are being persecuted. And you want to establish a fortress? Right here in Britain? " He shook his head again, leaning back in his seat. "That is not something we can afford right now."

"There is no better time," insisted Salazar. "If our arts are to be preserved, something must be done before it's snuffed out forever."

"It is too great a risk," said Lord Rand.

Acewellen said, "This is exactly the sort of responsibility the Council should uphold."

"It's folly is what it is," said Grendel.

"We take the burden on ourselves," Rowena said, a pleading note in her voice. "All we ask for is the Council's support in the matter."

"If there is to be instruction in the magical arts, it should be issued by this Council, not by a lordling and his friends."

"Hear, hear," barked Lord Sener.

Godric was steadfast. "If the work is our burden, the school will be under our governance."

Old Lord Breckwell pursed his lips for a thoughtful moment. "Your intentions are good," he said, not unkindly. "But now is not the proper time for such an endeavor."

Rowena's heart sank as there was a murmur of agreement along the table. Acewellen seemed to be their only supporter.

"If the four of them have offered to do the work, there is no reason the Council cannot provide the means," he insisted.

Seemingly tired of the bander, Stidolf called for the vote. "Those in favor?"

Acewellen and Eadignes (who was smirking through her pipe) raised their wands, and Rowena felt a surge of gratitude, and the tiniest twinge of hope. Godric and Salazar raised theirs, of course. Godric gave a small nod to Rowena, who realized she could vote in her father's place, and she lifted her own wand to shoulder height. Helga could not vote, being a guest only. One of the Celts raised their wand. But Grendel, Rand, Sener, Ó Firghil, Breckwell, and Stidolf remained quite still. They were split down the middle...

Stidolf announced with great effort, "Lord Gryffindor does not have the required majority. The motion is not carried."

Wands were lowered, and Rowena's spirits with them. She had feared this, but some small part of her had been so sure the worst would not happen…Godric's face had gone stony.

The Council dissipated uneventfully. Stidolf asked if anyone else had something to address, and when all was silent, he dismissed the Council session.

There were a few pops as some of the council members Disapparated. Rowena was slow to rise from her stone chair, despite being weary of it. Disappointment filled her, heavy in her chest. She had thought she was prepared for such an answer, but now that she had it, it stung. All of their work over the past few weeks, all of their ambitions seemed childish now.

She saw Lord Acewellen move to shake Godric's hand. They exchanged some pleasantries before Acewellen Disapparated, and Rowena suspected he was consoling Godric. Godric was steaming. His face was set with a hard look, his jaw clenched, and Rowena found she was dreading speaking to him. He would be let down the most by this…. Rowena and Helga drifted towards Salazar.

"I don't believe it…" said Helga, downtrodden. Godric strode towards them angrily.

"They're old men who have forgotten what it is to rise to their feet. Blind old fools who can't see anything past this damnable table!" he growled.

Salazar rubbed his chin, which was somewhat stubbly with neglect. "They're comfortable with their power. They don't want anything shifting that."

Godric's blue-grey eyes met each of theirs, as if afraid they would abandon him now. "We're doing it," he assured them fiercely. "I don't care what they say. We don't need them."

No…they didn't. Godric and Salazar seemed confident that their own funding would suffice for the formation of the school itself. But Rowena was thinking down the road…if their school was successful, it would surely grow. At what point would the Council be forced to recognize it?

"M'lords!"

The four turned to see the Celtic delegates from Ériu were approaching them. They wore thick woolen tunics that had faded with use, and muddy leather boots. They both had a worn look to their faces, prematurely lined with worry. The one who had spoken was Rí Ó Canain, a dark-haired man with a shadow of a dark beard. His voice was somewhat raspy, and he spoke with a heavy accent that wasn't far from Rowena's own. He was one who had given them his vote.

Rí Ó Canain bowed in greeting, and then shook hands with Godric and Salazar each in turn.

"Sir," said Godric politely. Salazar nodded his head as a courtesy.

Ó Canain looked between the four of them. "I knew the Council wouldn't get off it's lazy arse for ye." It sounded like a condolence.

"It seems they would not for you either, Sir," said Rowena, thinking of their plight in Ériu. Ó Canain gave an appreciative smile, then scanned their faces once more.

"Are ye still goin' to do eht? Can ye?"

Godric stood a little taller. "Aye, we'll do it."

Ó Canain grinned. "Then I know who ye need to build yer place."


	11. The Man in the Stone

_**Author's Note**__: I want to thank everyone who has read/reviewed! I love hearing from people who are enjoying the story, and I really appreciate it!_

* * *

><p><strong>AND IN THEIR TRIUMPH DIE<strong>

**chapter eleven**

**THE MAN IN THE STONE**

He was known as the Architect, and Salazar had never heard of him before. Nor had Godric, Helena, or even Rowena. But they all now felt positive that they needed him. If he could do what Ó Canain said, they would have a safe haven for their school sooner than they could have dreamed. It had been a problem that none of them had quite addressed, lurking just under their thoughts and discussions, seemingly unsolvable. It would take a Muggle builder years and years to construct the sort of place they envisioned—a true stronghold, safe and lasting. It was a maddening thought to wizards who could do so much more than Muggles, and yet none of them had any experience in building so much as a lean-to.

So it came to be that they had a new quarry. Salazar voiced a very legitimate concern that this Architect was no more than rumor. It seemed an age since anyone had heard anything of the wizard. Salazar and Rowena immediately began to pour through scriptures to find any information on him, and Rowena and Godric each went to their respective homes to ask Lord Ravenclaw and old Artorius Gryffindor if they knew the wizard. Both claimed there was a well-known builder in their time, but they knew little of him or what had become of him. Salazar was starting to fear that the man in question was dead, or that perhaps the works accredited to him (a few fortresses, most of which now lay in the hands of Muggles who were ignorant of their magical origins) were in actuality completed by more than one architect, and the stories had simply muddled together in one fictional being.

But Salazar and the others all acknowledged that they had no means by which to build their school in any fitting manner, and decided it was worth discovering the truth of Ó Canain's words.

Salazar sat at Helga's table shortly after breakfast, twirling his wand between his fingers as he skimmed through a book Rowena had brought him from the Ravenclaw library. It was refreshing to have company like Rowena, especially when she gave him access to whole new volumes of literature. He had exhausted the most interesting tomes at Slytherin Manor, and he found the Ravenclaws' texts to be much more rare, and much more challenging. She was also a perfect reading companion, for she, too, preferred not to be disturbed while engrossed in a scroll or two. In the evenings, Godric and Helga often engaged with some of the children, playing with spells, while Rowena and Salazar took to the hearth and read, keeping each other company in silence.

It was a chilly morning, with autumn well on its way. Godric had run off to Gryffindor Manor again, and when he returned, the four would set out on the trail Ó Canain had laid out for them. Salazar found his eyes wandering over the same handwritten lines of texts over and over, without actually recognizing the words. His attention was waning, his thoughts drifting to the approaching task. So he resigned, lowering his wand and rubbing his eyes with his knuckles.

Elyssa and Shireen went dashing through the kitchen on their way outside. Salazar tracked them with his blue eyes and mentally noted to himself that his own private quarters would be necessary in their new establishment…. He was unused to being in a house full of children (and one so small, especially in comparison to Slytherin Manor), and though they were mostly well-behaved and he enjoyed Penfryn, it was wearying at times. Personal space, that was the key…at Penfryn, there was none. Not for the first time, he agonized over the thought of caring for children as a mentor. But he felt strongly about the project, and that outweighed his potential intolerance for children.

"Clear the garden of gnomes!" Leona called from the kitchen, her words catching on the heels of the younger girls.

"_Now?_" moaned Shireen, peeking her head back inside.

"Yes, now," said Leona. There was some weak protest before Leona sighed, "Well, I guess it doesn't have to be done today. They're getting big, though."

"Bigger than they were?" asked Shireen.

"Yes, they might be too big for the garden soon. They move into the house when they outgrow their gardens."

The thought of nasty little gnomes sneaking into the bedroom seemed enough to worry the girls into finishing their chores, and they scurried out to the garden. Salazar squinted at Leona. He knew for a fact that this was not true about garden gnomes, and suspected she did as well. But he'd noticed on more than one occasion that the eldest girl of the house seemed to know exactly what to say to get the younger children to do what she wanted, as she was so often left in charge of them. She was only the oldest by perhaps six months, but she was obviously a step above the others in wit and maturity. Though she was mostly quiet, Salazar noticed that she was observant to everything he, Godric, Helga, and Rowena did.

As the girl moved to the table to gather a few plates, Salazar remembered that Helga said she was a runaway. His book failing to hold his attention, he wondered vaguely where the girl had come from. He would be teaching these children soon…and he realized he did not have the rapport with them that Godric already had developed.

"Would you like some tea, my lord?" she offered as she stacked a few plates from breakfast.

"No, thank you," said Salazar. His gaze found her bright eyes, and he was met with a stream of consciousness. Thoughts, vague and brief, drifting through her mind and observed by his. He tried to find the answer to his curiosity, searching the myriad of fleeting thoughts and—

"I'll thank you to you keep your head out of my thoughts, Sir," she said, politely but firmly, and Salazar was so surprised he lost his hold on her mind. He sat up a little straighter. He'd never been caught at his Legilimancy before…mostly because Sandro had never been observant enough to notice when Salazar was doing it, and Muggles never knew at all. Leona had broken their eye contact as she spoke, and Salazar couldn't get another hold on her if he tried.

Well. He was caught and culpable. Half-amused, half-abashed, he nodded in consent and said, "My apologies. I don't even realize I'm doing it sometimes." Which was the truth. The talent had always come so naturally to him, sometimes it was as reflexive as noticing another's clothing.

To his surprise, she met his gaze once more and said, "Was there something you were looking for in there, my lord?"

He was quiet and still for a moment, gauging her. A few beats of silence passed between the lord and the girl, and she did not shrink away. Then he decided she was being open and so he asked her bluntly. "Helga told us you had run away from your home. I was wondering why."

She did not seem offended by the question, but her face remained unreadable, steady. He could tell she was working out her answer. "My father had arranged for me to be married."

"And the groom was not to your liking?" Salazar assumed.

"I was eleven. He was a Muggle named Burgess Prayne—a merchant in our town. I think he was recently made a widower. My father made the deal with him and he came to the house to see me. When I went to greet him and he told me to turn so he could get a look at me. Then he told my father I looked skinny, and asked if I'd had my blood yet. My father assured him I would bear him healthy sons, so he agreed to the dowry and left. And that was it. So no, he was not to my liking. But my father was eager to be rid of me. He collected my dowry the next day, and that night I took all the coin from his room and left."

She said it all very matter-of-factly. Salazar almost grinned at the brazenness of it. So this little witch girl had struck out into the wild, with nothing but her dowry coin, rather than be married off to a boorish Muggle.

"Were your parents Muggles, then?" he asked curiously. "Did they know you are a witch?"

"My mother died giving birth to me. I think she must have been a witch…and I think my father might have had some magic in him too, but he was angry whenever I used mine. He forbade me to. He would never talk about my mother, either, and I was their only child, so I couldn't say for siblings having magic as well…." She trailed off and shrugged, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

That was interesting. She could be anything from pureblood to Muggle-born, but there was no way of knowing. Salazar had always identified so strongly with his blood status, he wondered what it would be like to never know. It might have been nice, to be void of such responsibility…it had always been expected of him to produce a magical heir, as he had grown up as the Heir of Slytherin House. He was expected to carry on the talents of their kind.

There was a soft _crack_ behind Salazar, who turned to see that Godric had Apparated into the room. Leona smiled politely and left the table with a few dishes in hand, saying not another word. Godric appeared to be carrying a dusty sack. Upon closer inspection, Salazar realized it was a very old, pointed hat, brown and faded and sad-looking.

"Godric," he said in a serious tone. "I didn't think you were wanting for money, I would have lent you some, if you needed a travelling hat."

"Ha ha," mocked Godric. But he was grinning brightly, and he brushed some dust off of the hat. "Your chivalry and taste in men's finery is unmatched, my friend, but I'm not wearing this. This was my grandfather's hat!"

Salazar wondered if he was supposed to understand some significance to this. "And what are you doing with your Old Lion's hat?"

"This," said Godric, "is going to help us with our students."

"By dressing them like paupers?"

Godric rolled his eyes this time. "You're getting a smart mouth, Sal. I'm a bad influence on you," he teased. "It's going to help us pick which students we're best suited to teaching. We can't all look after _all _of the students at once, so we can each be in charge of a few….. Rowena's quill gave me the idea."

Now Salazar was interested, and he turned round on the bench to face Godric, resting an elbow on the wooden table. "Is it charmed?"

"Not yet," said Godric with a smirk. "Want to take a crack at it?"

He slid onto the bench across from Salazar, where Leona had been perched moments before. They hadn't gotten far into discussing the proper charms to use when Helga and Rowena descended the wooden stairs.

"Excellent, you're back," Helga noted to Godric. The ladies were dressed for travel, forgoing their usual dresses for long robes over breeches and ladies' riding boots. "Are you ready?"

Godric and Salazar rose to their feet, and Salazar paused to pull one of his boots on more snugly. He wore soft travelling leathers, colored dark. His long, fitted samite sleeves were a deep, deep green. Little silver snakes were embroidered at the cuffs and collar.

They all stepped out into the yard and glanced at one another somewhat awkwardly. They were heading into the unknown, and suddenly a starting point seemed vague and unattainable. There was no clear way to start except to Apparate to the place Ó Canain had told them about. Godric held out his hands, and Salazar took one, Helga the other. Rowena clasped Helga's free hand. Together (and it was tricky, with four of them in a line) they turned and Disapparated. Salazar felt that familiar pressure of the move, the seizure of his breath, and then with a _pop _and a small gasp he was in free air again, his feet on solid ground.

They had come to a place in the far north of Ériu, near the sea. The landscape around them consisted of low, sprawling fields, still green despite the coming chill of autumn. Neither settlement nor lonely dwelling was in sight. The air was fresh and gentle, with a faint salty tang. Resting a hand on the hilt of his silver sword, Godric took the lead, walking towards the sound of the waves. The others fell into stride with him.

They came to a strange place, unlike anything Salazar had ever seen. As they moved closer to the water, the grass gave way to stone. Fringing the water was a stretch of strange rock formations—basalt columns interlocked to form solid ground, mostly hexagonal in shape. There was a low, flat plain of them, and as the formation spread it became uneven in places. Some sections resembled low, natural staircases. Not far off, there was an area where the columns raised up higher, like a miniature, geometric mountain.

The four looked around in wonder. It didn't seem natural, and yet no mortal man could have made this.

"What _is_ this place?" Hegla wondered, stepping out onto the wet, stony plain.

"They call it _Clochán an Aifir,_" Rowena told them. "They say a giant used it as a bridge to cross here from Scotia, but destroyed it when he retreated."

Salazar imagined one such giant, his feet smashing the stone to create the different layers and steps of this strange place. Though Muggles would write it off as myth, he wondered if there was truth in it. Surely giants didn't go entirely unnoticed by Muggles….they were hard to miss.

According to Ó Canain, the man they sought had been imprisoned along this shoreline. But Salazar saw no human structures, not even a peasant's hovel or a cave by the water. All it took was a quick investigation of the area before he was struck with the sinking thought that the story of the Architect was pure rumor. However, they had made their plans and come across the narrow sea, so it merited some diligent inspection.

The four of them began to wander around the shoreline. It was an overcast day, and somewhat breezy by the ocean. Salazar drew his flapping cloak about him and walked with the sea on his left. The stone columns were fascinating, and he studied their different shapes and patterns as he stepped up and down them. Most were no larger than a foot in diameter. Where they reached lower to the water, waves would roll up over the stones and over Salazar's boots. Not far off, a few harbor seals bobbed up out of the water to give Salazar a curious look. They gazed at him with big black eyes, then flared their whiskers and snorted before diving back into the blue-green water.

It was a solemn, lonely place, and Salazar liked it. It was far removed from any town, and the peaceful quiet was welcoming after weeks at Penfryn. The other three were investigating in the other direction, but Salazar didn't mind being on his own. He let the solitude of the place fill him, relaxing him and cleansing him of the stress and toil of the past weeks. He climbed higher, past the stone columns where the waves argued and crashed against higher ground. The cold spray of the sea flecked his face and he blinked the salty droplets away. A stray gull complained from the air above.

They searched the area for at least an hour, and found nothing definitive. Salazar had turned and drifted back towards the lower stones to study their flatter surfaces. He was noting that some of the stones had a straight line carved into them, but not in any significant pattern he could divine.

Rowena stepped lightly across the stones and joined him, following his gaze. Her hair was tied back but windswept, and long strands drifted in front of her face. "I saw this too," she said, pointing at the grooves. "I didn't see it on any other stones, just here."

"Nor did I," said Salazar.

Godric and Helga joined them. Godric was frowning, and Salazar knew he was disappointed. Drawing his wand, Salazar cleared his throat.

"This may be trite, but I suppose we should… _Homenum revelio_."

They waited and nothing but the ocean stirred. None of them was surprised. But Rowena seemed neither deterred nor disinterested yet. She drew her own wand, holding it with the same poise a violinist might a bow, and gave it a turn.

"_Hexia revelio_," she said. The end of her wand glowed with a faint light. Helga gasped and Godric's face brightened.

"There's something here?"

"I'm not sure…" murmured Rowena, her brow knitted in concentration. She strode towards the water, which was lapping at the stones not far from them, and looked down. "Perhaps a cave…."

"If we're looking for underwater caves now, I nominate Godric to go in," said Salazar.

Helga chuckled and Godric smirked in amusement, looking into the water.

"Impossible to tell," he observed. The cold water wasn't clear enough to see if there was an underwater opening in the rockbed.

They were at a loss. Though they were fairly certain _some_ form of magic had been produced in the immediate area, they couldn't find anything of significance in stone or sea. As the afternoon waned, they decided to make a camp out in the grass, a short walk from the shore. Helga had brought a small tent, which looked like little more than a vagabond's shelter until one stepped inside. It magically expanded to fit a set of bunked beds. There would have been enough room for Helga and Rowena to take the beds and the men to sleep inside on the rug, but they insisted upon not invading the ladies' sleeping quarters out of propriety.

Helga had also packed some provisions, and they ate a warm stew of lamb and potatoes cooked over a small fire. Then they sat together, and talked for a while of what they might do while they were here, and debated over the validation of Ó Canain's information. Salazar would feel half a fool if they left with nothing to show for their efforts, and he was vexed by the idea that there might _be_ something there but they weren't clever enough to discover it. He was unwilling to leave just yet. But the night crept on them fast, as the days were growing shorter and shorter as autumn rolled onwards. When their minds were tired of the puzzle at hand, the four of them began to talk of inconsequential things—easy conversation that they had not enjoyed for the past weeks while they plotted and learned. It was a welcome respite. Helga and Rowena retired into the tent for the night, and Godric and Salazar sat huddled by the fire. Then it was like when they were hunting the Galts, just the two of them. Godric cast a charm over them so they could speak without bothering Helga and Rowena.

Neither of them had ever worked so closely with women before, and the realization of having close female friends inevitably turned to the exchange of accounts of women they had bedded. They talked in quiet voices, swapping stories and fond memories. Neither of them frequented Muggle brothels, but each had grown up near Muggle villages and naturally had one or two tales to tell. It was a rarity for Salazar to have a companion he cared to divulge personal details to; he'd never had a friend to share stories with—none that he cared for, anyways. Salazar told Godric of a pretty Muggle girl who worked with the horses in the village near Slytherin manor, blond and sweet and who didn't mind that Salazar didn't talk much. Godric told Salazar of a girl from the Hollow, five years his senior and wild. They barely contained their laughter when he told Salazar a story of walking in on his brother Gaeralt with his first girl.

"…So I take Bayla to this empty servant's quarters behind the manor but _Gaeralt's _already there with a village girl named Nia. And I know that's his first, and I'm deep in my cups so I just yell out, '_Gaeralt_!' and he springs up so fast—"

"Hah! Poor boy."

Godric laughed, grinning ear to ear and passing the skin of wine. "He about trips trying to pull his breeches up and tuck himself in. Poor Nia screams and tries to cover herself, and Gaeralt's yelling, '_GODRIC! GET OUT!_'"

Salazar shook his head and laughed into his hand.

"Nia runs right past us and Gaeralt's so red he matches our coat of arms. But I'm drunk as a sow and I'm yelling, '_No, Nia! Come back! Make my brother a man!'"_ Godric dissolved into laughter at the memory, putting his face in the crook of his arm. Salazar stifled his laughter with his hand.

Godric sighed to calm his laughter and Salazar asked, "Did he ever see her again?"

Godric waved a hand. "Oh, yes, Nia was mad for him. Poor girl, she could never look at me after that. Gaeralt's _never_ forgiven me. He spent two weeks trying to sneak a jinx on me."

"I wouldn't have forgiven you either," laughed Salazar. "And if you ever walk in on _me_, I _will _jinx you."

When the wine had made them drowsy, they settled their tongued and lay with some spare blankets Helga had provided.

It was chilly out in the night, though they fire was steady. Rowena and Salazar had cast some protective enchantments, and since they had seen no one else since they arrived, they felt quite safe. Salazar was unused to the sound of the sea, churning against the rocky shore. But he found its rhythmic ebb and flow relaxing, and he lay for some time just listening to the sound, beyond the crackle of the fire. Godric lay nearby, his blanket tucked tightly around him. There was a soft glow of light coming from the ladies' tent, and Salazar knew Rowena must be reading by wandlight. He suddenly and uncomfortably hoped she hadn't heard any of his and Godric's conversation. But he was no fool with simple charms; surely they were not overheard.

He wasn't aware of falling asleep; for a while he was listening to the rolling waves and then he was seeing unsettling images. Was it just the darkness of his closed eyes that pressed in on him, or something else? Was he really asleep? It was dark and cold, and there was the rust-color of old blood on stone. And he heard a man yelling, and someone else choking. Some ancient prey instinct sent a thrill through him, a horrible feeling of being chased. There was an overwhelming desire to run, run as fast as he could, to get away from something that was surely right behind him…

And then a woman's yell jolted him awake. The sound of the sea came rushing back to him and he sat up. Godric jerked and spun awkwardly around where he lay, staggering to his feet and drawing his wand. Salazar leapt up and drew his own wand, rushing towards the tent with Godric.

"_Lumos!"_

There was no stranger near them…Godric drew back the flap of the tent.

"What is it? What's wrong?" he stammered.

Helga was peering from her bunk, propped up on her hands. Rowena was on her feet with one arm wrapped around her middle, and her wand pointed towards her bed to light it. She exhaled hard.

"A snake!" she cried. She closed her dark eyes to calm herself. "I'm sorry—it startled me!"

Godric exhaled and his wand arm flopped to his side, and Salazar heard him sigh, too quietly for the women to hear, "_Fuck…"_

Salazar felt his own surge of adrenaline ebb away, relieved. He stepped into the tent and strode over to Rowena's bunk, peering at one of the posts.

"That's odd…seems cold for a snake to be here," said Helga, leaning over to watch Salazar.

There was a brown snake, just under twenty inches in length. It was plain looking, and likely harmless as far as venomous snakes went. Salazar lowered a hand and spoke to it. To the others, it would sound like soft, senseless hissing noises. He coaxed the snake to him, and it slithered into his hand. He lifted it from the bed and looked at it. Its little rosy, forked tongue flitted in and out of its mouth. It regarded Salazar with golden eyes.

"_What are you doing here, friend?" _Salazar asked idly, ignoring the others' stares.

The snake flicked its tongue again. "_Man comes to this strange place?" _

"_Do you know this place? Do you know its secrets?" _

"_Secrets…it has one. We feel it below our bellies. We feel it in the stone. I must go now. It is cold." _

Salazar stepped towards the tent flap and squatted down, lowering the snake to the ground and letting it slip off into the grass. He lost sight of it quickly, as it disappeared into the night.

Godric watched, a mixture of confusion and interest on his face. "What did it say?" he asked softly.

Salazar glanced at the others. Helga was frowning curiously, Rowena's lips were slightly parted with wonder. "It said there's a secret in the stone. It said…they feel it below their bellies…the snakes do."

Rowena gasped, and they all looked at her, half-expecting to find another snake. "_In_ the stone!" she recited, her eyes brightening eagerly. "It's _in _the stones!"

She scurried across the tent to grab her boots and pulled them on, then pulled her outer robes on and strode past a bewildered Godric and Salazar, marching back towards the rocky shore. Helga immediately climbed from her bunk to find her shoes, shouting for Rowena to wait for her. The three lit their wands and followed.

"She scared the piss out of me," Godric laughed quietly to Salazar as they walked. He hesitated for a moment before adding, "I was dreaming about the Galts…about the cave…."

"So was I," admitted Salazar. They shared a glance and said no more on it, trotting after Rowena.

She was stepping along the strange, hexagonal stones, the sea breeze tossing her long, raven hair. She studied each stone she came to, holding her wand aloft. "It _is_ here…but I don't know what enchantments are on the site," she said, stopping at the set of stones with the lines carved into them.

Helga drew her wand. "Can we break them down?"

"Perhaps. Help me."

They all produced their wands and Rowena turned hers in the air. They stood in a circle, feeling for what enchantments they could detect. Rowena did a few complicated motions and murmured under her breath, and the air seemed to hum with energy. Salazar could feel it, faint through it was. There was complex magic lingering over this place, but it was difficult to make out. Only through Rowena's prompt did it become apparent.

The four of them worked together, feeling out the magic and dissembling the enchantments that were embedded into the stone. Salazar wondered what would yield to them if they managed to get through them.

It was a complicated process. At times one or two of them would need to back off when one of them had a hold on something. Sometimes it took all four of them to wrestle a charm and counter it. They had nothing to go on visually for some time, until the lines in the stones began to glow.

Dawn was approaching by then, a pale light creeping up in the eastern sky. Salazar and Helga had sat aside for half an hour while Godric and Rowena worked. Salazar sat with his knees drawn up, forehead resting on his folded arms. He drifted off to sleep once or twice, half-listening for a call from the others and half slipping into dreams. But they were troubled, always bringing him back to the cave or showing him visions of the burning girl he and Godric had seen…. Even Godric, who could probably sleep standing up, seemed unable to grasp a moment of true rest in this place. _It's the enchantments,_ Salazar told himself, some design to keep people away from this spot. Where before the sound of the ocean waves had been soothing to Salazar hours ago, it had become a murky din of noise. The waves crashed over and over and over and rang in his head, and he felt a stab of irritation at the incessant noise. He wished it would just stop, but knew that was like asking the sun not to rise.

Then Rowena and Godric called to them, and Salazar lifted his head to look at them with bleary eyes.

"Look! Sal, Helga—look!"

Salazar got up and hurried to the spot, his cloak blowing in the salty wind. Some of the stone cylinders now had a glowing line across their diameter. The light was soft, like the light of a rainy day. Hesitantly, Godric reached down and touched one of the stones, but nothing happened.

They stood quietly, frowning at the stones. Salazar's brain was sluggish from the lack of sleep. He tried to get it to start _functioning_, but he felt like his head was empty and his mind would not move.

Godric knelt down again and tried pushing on one of the stones, tried turning one, but it would not budge. Their shapes were too perfectly interlocked to turn.

"Wait—stand back," said Salazar, lifting his wand. The others looked at him and took two steps back.

"_Surgero_," he said, moving his wand vertically.

The columns began to rise. Godric gave a cry of triumph and Rowena gasped. The stone scraped like gravel as the marked columns rose slowly, slowly, until they were shoulder height. Seven posts now stood before them, in a circle.

At the center of the posts, a fog accumulated. Salazar's tired eyes barely had time to register that anything was happening before it took shape. A hazy figure was suspended before them, in the shape of an old bearded man. They took a cautious step back as it hovered, like a wisp of cloud.

"What—"

The second Godric's voice sounded, the figure turned and rushed at him, and in the blink of an eye Godric was obscured by a swirling fog. The others gave a shout of alarm as Godric thrashed, staggering backwards. There was a sound like rushing wind, and Helga pointed her wand and shouted a counter-curse. The smoky figure slowed. Rowena waved her wand and the smoky man dissolved into dust. It fell like a cloud of ash over a panicked Godric, who frantically shook out his curls and tried to brush it all off of him. He looked shaken and disheveled, but uninjured as far as they could tell.

"The _fuck _was that?" he barked, rubbing the grey dust from his cheeks. He had forgotten his manners in his shock and lack of sleep.

"Something to scare us," said Salazar in a calming tone.

"Why did it come after _me_?" demanded Godric irritably. Salazar raised his brow.

"Because you _opened your big mouth,"_ he taunted. Godric seemed a little calmer, though he made a point to hit Salazar in the arm.

"It must have been waiting to hear someone's voice. The right voice," Rowena said, looking back at the columns.

The shock of the specter receding, they approached the columns again. ("I'm fine, by the way," Godric informed them). They examined the pillars, placed their hands over them, tried to turn them, tried to magic something out of them….but they were stoic. Everything was quiet again, except for the waves.

"I don't like the feel of this," said Helga, a frown on her face. No one had to voice their agreement. Magic had been used for an evil purpose here, and no simple charm would call upon what they came to get.

"Maybe it needs payment," Rowena said in a small voice, as though she hoped that wasn't the answer.

Godric had a hard look on his face as he drew his sword, an air of determination about him. The _shing _of metal being released from its scabbard was swallowed by the damp air. The others looked at Godric, and Salazar knew what he would do. It was worth trying. Blood was a powerful conduit for magic—it was life.

"Godric—" started Helga.

"It's fine."

He put the silver blade to his palm and quickly pulled, leaving a line of scarlet. His nose wrinkled in a slight grimace as a line of blood ran and dripped from his hand. Lifting his hand over one of the columns, he let a few drops of blood fall into the luminous line. Salazar put the tip of his hawthorn wand to his own left palm and drew a line. The skin split and blood bloomed from the cut. He joined Godric, squeezing his fist over the column closest to him so that blood dribbled onto its surface.

They did this with each column, and the glowing lines were snuffed out with blood. Godric flexed his hand to coax blood onto the last column, and then stood back. Helga reached over and took his hand, pointing her wand at the deep cut and sealing it with magic. She reached for Salazar's and did the same, and as the gash in his palm closed, there was a rumble under their feet.

The stones in the center of the circle began to rise as well, all together, filling the empty space between the columns. The four stepped back and watched, flooded with anticipation that dominated their tiredness. Salazar gripped his wand, rolling it against his palm reassuringly, ready to defend if something unpleasant came from these stones.

The columns rose unevenly, and then all was quiet for a moment. Then they flinched as the stones suddenly crumbled and fell to the ground in pieces. Little rocks came tumbling across the ground and rolling at Salazar's feet. It all fell away to reveal the stone figure of a man, much like the ghostly figure they had just seen. He had a long, curling beard, and wore long robes. He was suspended in a state of distress, his face tense and taunt in an expression of dread. Slowly, with a crackling noise like breaking ice, the stony texture of the statue began to soften. In the pale, pre-dawn light, stone became man. Grey gave way to pink flesh, rock became soft beard and cotton. Then the stone was gone and the old man released a heavy breath, his legs failing him.

Godric moved quickly, catching the man before he fell. The old man gave a soft moan, eyes fluttering open.

"Oh…." he breathed.

He was frail and weak. Godric supported him easily, and they led the dazed man to their camp and sat him down by their little fire. It was light enough to see by now, though the world had yet to reclaim its color from the night. Salazar, Godric, Helga, and Rowena sat around the fire and gave the old wizard a bowl of last night's stew. He thanked them and took the bowl in knobby hands, eating slowly. With each spoonful, some strength and awareness seemed to return to him.

"Thank you," he said softly to them, using a knobby hand to wipe some broth from his white mustache. "I owe you younglings my life. But how? How did you come to find me?"

"You're the architect?" asked Salazar, his elbows resting on his knees. He looked across the fire at the strange old wizard they had discovered.

The old man looked up with clear eyes. "My name is Nicholoran. And yes…I was an architect."

Godric spoke, his tone even and businesslike, but not unfriendly. "I am Godric Gryffindor. These are my friends Salazar Slytherin, Helga Hufflepuff, and Rowena Ravenclaw."

Nicholoran studied them each in turn, hunched over his bowl of stew. "You come from great houses," he observed softly.

"How did you come to be here?" asked Salazar.

Nicholoran looked back at his stew, frowning. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Salazar thought he heard a hint of shame in his words. "I was trapped…by a terrible wizard. He did not come from these islands. He was well-versed in the Dark Arts…he took me from my home and forced me to build him a stronghold in his own land. And then he brought me here and locked me away, so he could call upon me again if he needed me."

"Who was this wizard?" Godric asked, eyes narrowed.

"His name was Styr….but that was….what is the date?" he asked suddenly.

"1009 by the Muggle calendar."

"Oh…" sighed Nicholoran. "Then it was three years since last I saw Styr. Since he imprisoned me."

Styr…Salazar dug through his memories, trying to recall if he had ever heard the name before or read about this wizard. But the name was new to him.

"Why have you done me this kindness?" wondered Nicholoran.

"A Celt told us a rumor, that you could help us," said Godric.

Nicholoran straightened, turning towards Godric. "Anything, young one, anything," he said earnestly. "Ask and I will help you in any way I can."

Godric glanced at the others before speaking. "We…have a project. We need a builder."

"You aren't obligated," Helga said hurriedly. "But we hope you can help."

Salazar shot an irritated glance at her, frowning slightly. They had leverage against this man and Salazar hadn't intended to throw it away like that. They _needed_ the architect. That was the bottom line, and Salazar meant to have his aid one way or another.

Fortunately, the old wizard seemed receptive.

"I've not worked in some time," he said, but there was a little glint in his eye. "What sort of project is this?"

"A school, for witchcraft and wizardry," said Godric. "A safe place for young witches and wizards to learn."

"And you will be teaching them?"

"Yes," said Rowena. "We've been to the Council, and they do not support us. But we have the coin. And the knowledge."

Nicholoran looked between them, a smile on his thin lips. "Why…that's a wonderful idea," he said. Salazar was filled with satisfaction. Helga smiled brightly. Nicholoran began asking them questions about the project, and he seemed genuinely tickled by the idea, and genuinely excited to be working again. He was exceedingly gracious to them, and insistent that he owed the four of them his life.

Building a magical school, he claimed, was the least he could do for them.


	12. Hogwarts

_**Author's Note**__: HOGWARTS IS HERE. This was a tough chapter, as I wasn't quite sure where to go or how to bridge into the activity at the school without producing just a worthless "here's-what-happened-over-the-past-year" sort of chapter. I started with a draft explaining all the events of the year it took to design and construct the castle, but I figured you guys probably weren't very interested in a filler chapter. Then it started out as a Godric chapter because this was his brainchild, after all, and in my eyes he's the unofficial headmaster. However, the children were so very much a part of Helga and I think the moment her lifelong efforts culminate into this great school is important for her, so it earns her the chapter. I hope you enjoy!_

_Also, I know the M rating has promised sex and violence. It's coming too. Don't worry. _

**AND IN THEIR TRIUMPH DIE**

**chapter twelve**

**HOGWARTS**

**Autumn, 1010 A.D.  
><strong>_**One year later.**_

The castle stood perched above a vast, dark lake in a valley that had no name. It was as large as any prince's palace, vast in a way that none of the four had anticipated. Its numerous towers combed the sky, its broad walls buffeted the Scottish winds imperviously. Nicholoran had delighted in the task, pouring his heart into the design, staying up for nights on end in a feverish haste to put all of his ideas to reality. It exceeded their expectations. When they wondered why he was building _such_ a grand establishment, he asked for their trust and said, "It is exactly what it will need to be."

They had not understood until it was completed. Nicholoran and Rowena had spent months and months drowning in parchments and sketches; the two of them had clicked instantly, two intellectual minds coming together to create the most confusing floor plans any of the others had ever seen in a castle. But even Rowena had not fully understood Nicholoran's talent. The castle was _alive_ with magic. There were so many passageways and corridors that Godric expressed a concern about getting lost on more than one occasion. There was a grand hall that could have easily seated five hundred, directly above spectacular kitchens. Hegla's house-elves had a new home and were ecstatic at the grandeur of it. A few of them wept with the joyous idea of serving meals in such a place, and cried even harder when Helga and Godric tried to offer them wages. They refused, simply glad to have a good home. Salazar brought all of the house-elves he had over from Slytherin Manor, and Helga wondered if the place was completely deserted now. But they never asked Salazar about it and he never spoke of it.

There were multiple towers, and the castle had its own owlry. Helga's students had their own quarters near the kitchens—near the elves, which Helga liked. It was cozy and full of bright natural light, and adorned with the colors of Helga's family, yellow and black. She had not expected that; Nicholoran had incorporated their sigils throughout the design of the castle. The oil vats used to light the great hall were each carried by a lion, a badger, an eagle, or a serpent…statues crept through the halls in the fashion of their devices….. She'd never given too much thought on her own family's sigil. They were not a great old house like Gryffindor, Slytherin, or Ravenclaw. All Helga knew was that her mother's colors were black and yellow, and her father's surname had been Hufflepuff and his family's meager crest displayed a badger. Helga had taken these tropes onto herself simply because they were part of her identity to her parents, not because they had any real significance like the Lion of Gryffindor…. But when she saw the badger carved into the lintel of the common room doorway, she couldn't help but grin. There was a tower where Godric's students would sleep, another tower for Rowena's. Deep in the innards of the castle was a place for Salazar's students, which seemed to suit him fine, though Helga much preferred her sunny quarters. There was a library that Salazar and Rowena could happily die in, and Helga suspected she might lose them there frequently. The grounds were sprawling and green, and it was theirs. Their new home. Their accomplishment.

They called it Hogwarts, after they had to chase an angry group of boar off of their construction land during the spring. Godric had been somewhat foolhardy and nearly got himself gored by one…which, of course, he found terribly funny. The next day, Rowena told them that she had had a silly dream about a warty hog living on the cliff, likely provoked by their encounter with the beasts the previous day. "A hog with warts?" Godric had mused. Then, perhaps because of the flagon of wine he had just indulged in, he smirked and said, "Hogwarts!" He and Helga had a good laugh at the absurdity of the name. It became somewhat of a joke, for whenever they asked Nicholoran how the construction was coming along.

"You're not _actually_ calling it 'Hogwarts,' are you?" Salazar asked incredulously.

Godric grinned that lopsided grin of his. "Sure, why not?"

Salazar raised his brows in exasperation and amusement. "All right, then…"

And the name stuck.

The owls went out in late summer, sending letters to the children whose names were in Rowena's book. The four agonized for a week or two, wondering if any of them would actually come. Not all of them replied. It was unsurprising, for some were born to Muggles and were likely fearful to come, or unable to. Each time they realized that they were simply not going to get a response from some, Godric fell into a melancholy mood. He had a temper as fierce as his determination, and whenever, during the construction of the castle, things started to look grim he would prowl and brood. The others learned to find it endearing, knowing it was passion that vexed him and not malice.

In addition to Helga's six wards, they gained seven new charges, from various parts of Britain. Though sixteen new names had been on their list, these were all who could make it. It was plenty to start with, however, and though Godric was somewhat disappointed, Salazar pointed out that realistically, they couldn't have hoped for more than what they got. Helga was elated just have that many.

The students were each sent a Portkey, and a letter explaining how to use it. Rowena and Helga had carefully selected items to charm and sync with one another. It was a chilly fall afternoon when they arrived, popping onto the Hogwarts grounds. Some of them were shocked at their first real encounter with magic. A few had come from wizarding families, and understood a little better. Helga had been anxious before their arrival, wringing her hands and rolling her wand between her fingers as her eyes scanned the grounds. But once the children arrived, looking so bewhildered, lost, and excited, it came naturally to her to gather them up like a mother goose collecting her goslings.

The first afternoon was devoted to getting all of the children wands. Only three of their newcomers already possessed their own, as they came from old pureblood families—three boys, Ianfeld Marques, Callum Morteir, and Grayson Peverell. Helga collected those who did not have wands and transported them all to the Ollivander shop in the south. It was quite an undertaking. She had written to Orion Ollivander in the weeks prior to inform him she may be bringing a large group of youngsters to his workshop. He'd crafted wands for all of her wards, and she would trust no other with the task. He was, of course, accommodating to them, and since he was making a pretty penny off of the large group, why shouldn't he? Ollivander's shop never failed, and after two hours of trial and error, each child returned to the Hogwarts castle with a wand in hand.

Evening fell and brought with it a chill. The glassy lake reflected the pale oranges and pinks of sunset as Helga collected all of the children by the doors to the Great Hall. Some were standing on their tip-toes, peering eagerly around one another to get a glimpse of the massive hall before them.

"Quiet now, children, quiet now," Helga chirped. "No pushing." She put her hands on her hips and gave a satisfied huff as the students grouped into something resembling order. Then she turned to see her friends at the high table; Nicholoran sat as an honored guest at the end by Rowena, cradling a cup of mead in his hand and smiling warmly. Then there was a space for Helga, and Godric stood in the middle with Salazar on his right. Rowena was looking at the students with interest, biting her lip through a smile. Helga stifled a grin when she saw Salazar, whose expression was somewhat stony. He was anxious about interacting with the children, she knew. Well, he would learn quickly, as she had.

Godric moved around the table, a floppy pointed hat in his hand. Just below the high table was a plain stool, upon which Godric placed the hat. Then he gestured for Helga.

"Come forward, children!" She gestured for them to enter the hall, stopping them short of the stool. There was a heartbeat of silence as Helga looked back at Godric expectantly. When he saw her looking at him he said, "Oh," and cleared his throat before addressing the students.

"Welcome," he said to them, spreading his hands. "Welcome to Hogwarts. You are here because each of you possess an increasingly rare talent….something that needs to be preserved and cultivated. Some of you come from old families where magic runs deep….some of you are the first of your household to ever have such talents. Some of you may not have even known you _had_ this talent before our letter reached you." He paused just long enough to glance at Helga, as if for reassurance. "Whatever the case…Hogwarts is a home to you. For those of you who don't know us, I am Godric Gryffindor…you have met Helga Hufflepuff. And this is Lady Rowena Ravenclaw, and Lord Salazar Slytherin. We are all learned in the magical arts. We have devoted ourselves to the study of it, and we are here to teach you as much as we can, not only to help you develop your own talents but to teach you how to protect yourselves."

Godric ran a hand over his close-cropped russet beard and seemed to decide he was satisfied with his words. He raised his eyebrows to Helga, who took that as her cue. Smiling, she turned on her heel to face the eager children once more. Godric returned to his place at the table.

"Now, as we each have different strengths and weaknesses, we will be dividing you into small groups, so that you will be placed where you will benefit the most from our teachings." She lifted a hand and with a small flourish produced a scrap of parchment from the air. A few of the students gasped in surprise and wonder. "When your name is called, please sit and place the hat upon your head. It will sort you right out. Now let's see who's first…_Aleena Barron._"

A small, mousy girl glanced at the others nervously before slowly walking to the stool. Helga smiled warmly and lifted the hat. "Up you go! Don't be shy." Little Aleena climbed up on the stool and sat with her hands in her lap. Helga placed the large floppy hat on her head and it almost dropped over her eyes.

Helga would never forget when she had placed the hat on her own head. Godric had spent quite a bit of time and managed to produce a charm that impressed even Rowena and Salazar. Soon his grandfather's old hat had been quipping riddles and rhymes ("It sounds like my old Uncle Talbert," Godric had remarked, nose wrinkling) and each of the four had put it on their heads so it may understand them. _Helga Hufflepuff,_ it had crooned in her ear. _Those who have your friendship should treasure it, though you give it so very freely. It is friendship you most value, is it not? And you have worked so very hard in your life… _

Godric promised the charm would let the hat see what was ticking in people's minds, and in turn it could determine which of them could teach what students. Helga had thought it somewhat frivolous at first...she would have taught a hundred students all by herself if she had to. But the more she pondered it, the more she saw the point. These were delicate arts they were teaching. This hat would give Helga the students who would work in perfect tandem with her, students who possessed the qualities she could most effectively cultivate. It was best this way. She could be most effective this way, and teach her students better.

When the hat touched the crown of Aleena's head, it stirred, and a wide tear by the brim split open like a mouth. "Oh!" it said, and Aleena nearly fell off of the stool in shock. "Smart girl, you are. Taken to flights of fancies….yes, I think you ought to be with _Ravenclaw_!" it said in a self-satisfied voice.

At the table, Rowena beamed. Helga smiled and removed the hat. "Go sit at that table there, dear." She pointed and Aleena scurried towards the indicated seating as though wanting to put as much distance between herself and the talking hat as possible. Helga pressed on.

"_Val Brynmar._"

A freckly boy with red-brown hair hurried to the stool and watched Helga as she placed the hat on his head. Once more, the hat squirmed in thought. "Oh I think Lord _Gryffindor_ will know just what to do with you, lad!"

Godric grinned and watched the boy stride towards his table.

"_Faolan Burke." _  
>Steely as always, Faolan walked calmly to the stool and the hat only needed a moment to decide, "<em>Slytherin!" <em> Helga glanced at Sal as Faolan dismounted the stool. Sal was watching the boy curiously.

A boy named Kieran Donovan was placed with Gryffindor, and he joined Val at the table. Then Helga's sweet little Elyssa came, tucking her golden hair behind her ear and smiling. The hat determined that she belonged with Hufflepuff, and she hugged Helga before scurrying to their table.

Her twin brother Evander came next, straightening his shoulders as he approached the stool, trying not to appear as anxious as Helga knew all the children must be. The hat hardly touched his head before announcing, "_Gryffindor!_" The boy beamed at Godric as he went to the table, and Godric grinned and bowed his head. Helga was unsurprised. The two of them were so very much alike and had such an excellent rapport.

_Godric is who Evander needs, _thought Helga. _He will be what I could not be for the boy._

A girl named Emilia Elsey was placed with Rowena, and then Leona came to the stool. _This one is half a lady already. _She sat calmly, and the hat murmured, "Hmm…plenty of brains, I see. And plenty of fight in you, too…. But you want more? I know another mind much like yours. You'd best be with _Slytherin." _

Leona smiled satisfactorily and strode to join Faolan at the table.

A boy named Marcus Fraer joined Elyssa at the Hufflepuff table, and a haughty girl named Catelyn Leavey went to Gryffindor. A gangly pureblood named Ianfeld Marques went to Slytherin, and another pureblood called Callum Morteir was placed with Ravenclaw. The next boy was from a family Helga recognized: Grayson Peverell. She was sure that her father had been a friend of the Peverells, but as she had never met them herself she couldn't be sure. He joined her Hufflepuff table. Her shy Quinn went to Rowena's table, and Helga was happy for him. He would do so well with Rowena. Last but not least, little Shireen happily joined Elyssa with Hufflepuff.

Helga looked at the four little tables before them and saw their students. Fifteen in all. A meager first class, but…perfect. They were all curious, all eager, some shy…but they were here, and they were safe, and they had an opportunity Helga could have only dreamt of as a child. She gathered up the hat and stool and joined her fellows at the table, sitting between Godric and Rowena. Ro took her hand under the table excitedly, and Helga grinned at her.

"Helga, would you like the honor of introducing your elves?" asked Godric.

"Oh! It would be my pleasure," said Helga with a smile. She looked at the students once more, stood up and said, "Our friends have prepared something very special for you! Enjoy your dinner, and then we will show you to your rooms."

She clapped her hands and suddenly the tables were filled with a wondrous feast. The children's surprise and glee was audible as they were presented with roast pheasant and potatoes, a creamy chestnut soup and veal pies, ham dripping with honey and maple, and tidy little fruit pastries. Helga wondered how many of the children had never eaten more than black bread and mutton for most of their lives. Rich or poor, they all tucked into the food with an air of excitement, and Helga couldn't help but smile.

"Oh, they outdid themselves this time," said Rowena as food appeared at the high table. There was a rack-roast lamb with rosemary and potatoes, a trencher of the chestnut soup, a sweet bread baked with cranberries and oats, and spiced wine. Helga, Rowena, Godric, Salazar, and Nicholoran shared a toast. The old architect had a gleam in his eye, and once or twice Helga thought he looked a little misty as he gazed at the students residing in the hall he had built. The entire hall grew warm and pleasant with the aromas of the feast, and it wasn't long before students and teachers alike were drowsy, with full bellies. They'd all had a long day, and tomorrow would be even more taxing. Tomorrow was what counted.

More than one student was yawning when Helga took it upon herself to gather them up. Godric and Rowena collected their charges and led them out of the hall and up the grand staircase. They were heading up to the towers (with Rowena likely in the lead, as only she had truly mastered that bloody changing floorplan of hers), while Helga and Salazar led their groups past the stairs and down the halls. They branched apart as Salazar descended a staircase with his students, and Helga led the way to the Hufflepuff common room. It was tucked away in a little nook by the kitchens, and the rounded door opened with a tap from her wand.

Shireen, Elyssa, Marcus, and Grayson filed into the circular room, looking around in wonder. It was cozy even at night, with a warm fire in the hearth and plushy yellow couches to sit on. Shireen and Elyssa went to the windows to try to get an idea of their view, but it was too dark now to see much. "Girls, your beds are through here…boys, just here. You have fresh clothes laid out for you for tomorrow!"

Though likely overwhelmed, the children seemed happy to be sleeping in pairs, and settled down just fine. There was a girls' room and a boys' room all set up with comfy beds and fresh rushes. They were canopied with marigold-colored velvet trimmed in black. Shireen and Elyssa were excited to have their very own beds for the first time in their lives. Helga assured them that if they needed anything, they could call a house-elf, who would then call her. When she was satisfied that they were fairing well and weren't afraid to be left alone in the common room, she slipped quietly out the door. Just across from them were the kitchens, and so she popped in to compliment her elves on the marvelous meal they had produced. They were all so pleased at their first serving that they were almost in tears. One of the elves from Penfryn, Tallie, was so overcome at how beautiful and big the kitchens were that she cried into Helga's skirts, saying what an honor it was to serve here.

When Tallie was calm, Helga wished them all good night and strode down the quiet corridor. Suddenly the weight and size of the castle seemed apparent. It was so quiet, and somewhat lonely…Helga was visited by the urge to get to her chambers and snuggle into her new bed.

She met Sal by the steps to the dungeons. He had a hard look on his face, and his twirled his wand absent-mindedly in his fingers. "Are the children all right?" asked Helga as she approached. He raised his gaze to her.

"Oh, yes. Quiet."

Helga smiled and tiled her head. "What's the matter, Sal? Nervous for tomorrow?"

His expression didn't change, but he seemed to debate how to answer her. "A little," he finally admitted. "I'm not good with children."

"Well…you don't have to talk to them like children," Helga suggested. "I think you'll find they'll rise to whatever standards you set for them."

Salazar pondered this for a moment before giving a slow nod. "That is good to know…."

"I think you'll surprise yourself, Sal." Helga smiled and bid him goodnight before proceeding to the apartments that had been set aside for her. They weren't far from her students, which she appreciated. It had quaint round windows just like the common room, a larger and finer bed than she had ever slept in, and its own fireplace. In the morning, yellow light would stream through the windows and make the place cheery. She also had her own couch, and Nicholoran had even troubled himself to adorn the room with some potted flowers. Helga was simultaneously elated and lonely. She had never slept in such a large room by herself…but she didn't have much time to dwell on that thought, with sleep creeping up on her. She changed into her night clothes and let down her long, honey-gold hair and tested out the featherbed. It was at least as fine as the beds in Glenhouse, where she and Rowena had spent so much of their girlhood. She was suddenly very tired…it had been a busy year, what with the construction of the castle, and during that time she had ratified three new potions with the Council. And then they had invented all of their lessons, done as much research as was available to them…she felt as though most of her life had been leading to this. Thinking back, she was surprised to find that she barely remembered taking in the first of her children…it had come so naturally to her, had become so _normal_ that it was strange to think of a time when she lived with just her mother. And now her children had a grand castle to live and learn in, and the very best wizards and witches to teach them all they could. _But the work has just begun,_ she told herself. Now she would truly be a teacher. Tomorrow was the first of many days—hopefully countless days, and they were as prepared as they could possibly be.

With her head resting on feather pillows and a warm fire keeping the chill away, Helga fell into a satisfied sleep.


	13. House of Smoke

_**Author's Note: **__Surprise POV! I could probably alter this chapter over and over but fics never progress that way. Hope you enjoy it! Thanks to everyone who has read/reviewed/reblogged/etc! It means a lot!_

**AND IN THEIR TRIUMPH DIE**

**chapter thirteen**

**HOUSE OF SMOKE **

_Crack, sluuurp. _

Lord Grendel watched Styr break another crab leg in his large hands, easier than a farmhand might wring a rooster's neck. He approached his meal, as with most things, with vigor. The peach-and-cream colored shells splintered and he sucked the sweet meat from them noisily. Lord Grendel's own plate was neat and barely touched. He'd eaten the cod readily enough, and choked down the barley beer he'd been given.

Styr's beady eyes moved from his feast to Grendel's face as he savored a chunk of crabmeat. "You don't like crab?" he stated gruffly.

"Oh—I do. Forgive me. I'm simply…not as skilled at the craft of eating it as you are, my lord."

Styr brought another morsel to his mouth; he didn't bother with cutlery, he ate right with those big hands of his. "Forgive you? Have you wronged me?"

"I just—I did not mean to give offense over the food."

Styr went back to his dish. "I don't give two shits 'bout what a man does or doesn't eat."

Grendel had nothing to say to that, so he tried to follow Styr's example and crack one of the crab legs. The meat _was_ sweet…quite different from anything he'd eaten in Britain. The food here in Denmark was different. They had fewer grains to speak of…too damn cold, he supposed. Their beer was hoppy and their food came from sea and pasture, mostly. These were a cold, raw people and their food was much the same. A man with Styr's acquired wealth could afford luxuries like butter, though, and the crabmeat was succulent when dripping with the stuff.

"If you're not going to eat, tell me about the Council."

_Crack, sluuurp. _

The room was dimly lit with the orange light of the fire pit in the center of the longhouse. One end of the structure was entirely devoted to Styr's livestock—two horses, three cows, some pigs…they helped with the warmth, but the smell was affronting. That, combined with the haze of fire smoke that had accumulated inside had Grendel's eyes watering. They housed their crops and foodstuffs inside, too. It was a large hall, but Styr and Grendel were alone, save for a few of his men stationed at the entrance, and serving girls. But normally, Grendel knew, a large host of men, women, and children would be crowded into the longhouse. Barely better than savages, really…bedding down with their own livestock. Grendel cringed at the very thought of such. It wasn't right. Just like it wasn't right for any man to live in a place that was so damnably _cold._ Small wonder they kept their livestock close.

Grendel snorted in disdain at the mention of the Council. "Acewellan tried to gain support for Aethelred. But it did not pass. They're doing what they do best—sitting, and waiting," he told Styr.

"Mmm," growled the wizard. "All the better for us."

He was an imposing figure, easily taller than most Britons and thick in build. His broad shoulders were rounded and he had a slouching stance that made him seem tired…or burdened somehow. But any man who thought him feeble for it proved a fool—a dead one, usually. He had dark eyes and a slightly prominent nose. His fair hair and beard were long, reaching to the middle of his chest and back. Thick braids were mended into his beard and mustachios. Though he was a great warrior and leader, he wore simple clothes—a long, roughspun woolen tunic and breeches, and tall, heavy boots made of leather and hide and fur. Everything about him was worn…_battle_-worn. He bore a wicked scar tracing from the outer corner of his right eye down to his jaw. And those broad, brutal hands were tearing away at the crab…

_Crack. Crack._

But his physicality wasn't what truly made Styr intimidating. It was the stories, the tales of his deeds that followed him the way the smell of blood followed battle. He knew such magic, magic that made a man shudder to think of. Grendel heard stories. Like how he could turn a man inside-out, make him bend and twist in unnatural ways until he broke himself, or make a man claw open his own belly and spill his guts on the ground and Styr never even needed to lift a blade.

Styr sucked butter and crabmeat from his fingers. "So I shouldn't expect Aethelred to have a wizard in his pocket when we arrive?"

Grendel shook his head, tediously fishing with his fork to get a bit of crabmeat from the shell. "I shouldn't think so. It's too dangerous for us right now," he said. "We've had a lot of burnings over the past few seasons…"

Styr huffed his acknowledgement and lifted his empty stein. A serving girl with dirty hands appeared at his side to fill it with beer. "And you snuffed the proposal, did you?"

"Of course. It didn't take much convincing. So few of the Council have any bloodlust left in them. When Aethelred calls his banners, he's not like to have any wizards supporting him."

"Keep it that way."

Styr's tone was short and brisk. Grendel frowned a little. He knew that was Styr's way, but still…he didn't appreciate being spoken to like some green squire. He was a lord, and a lord of the Council at that. He was more a lord than Styr was, but that was the way of things here. Blood and birth didn't make a man a lord, but rather _spilt _blood. They just took whatever they wanted and any man could call himself _lord_. But for now, Grendel quelled his annoyance and pulled his fine velvet robes a little more snugly around himself.

"I wouldn't be worried, my lord," he said stiffly. "Half of the Council wants to go into hiding."

Styr looked up at that. "Hiding? From Muggles?"

Grendel allowed himself a small grin, pleased that Styr was interested in his information. "Just so. They want to break from Muggle society entirely."

Styr snorted, picking at his plate. "They've been sitting on those stone chairs so long their balls have gone right back up. Do you still have your balls, Grendel?"

Frowning, Grendel chose to ignore the question. "The less apt the Council is to be in the Muggle eye, the better for us, my lord."

Styr wagged a finger at him. "There's the truth of it. You should have a few more witches and wizards burned."

Grendel blinked, taken aback. "I'm…sorry?"

Styr gave a heavy sigh and gestured with his hands, as though he were explaining to a stubborn child. "Don't give any reason for the Council to sympathize with the Muggle King," he said in a slow, deliberate voice. "Encourage discord. Always. You're a man of some weight, are you not, _Lord _Grendel? Make a few more burnings known." He tore at a small heel of tough bread with his teeth.

Grendel looked back at his plate, considering. He supposed it couldn't hurt…maybe he could find someone up to the task….He rubbed at his stinging eyes, cursing the smoke that was cloying the air of the longhouse.

"When will your king be ready to sail?"

"Not this winter," said Styr bluntly.

Grendel fought down his annoyance. "If I let an army pass through my lands and Sweyn fails—"

"You'll be executed for treason," said Styr. "But Sweyn wont fail. He means to take Britain, and so do I."

"You'll make sure of it, wont you?" Grendel couldn't help but ask nervously.

"Didn't I tell you I could?" Styr looked back up at him, his dark eyes steady and glinting in the firelight. When Styr bothered to look at you…it was, perhaps, not a good thing.

Grendel offered a weak smile, trying to gloss it over. "Of course you did. Of course you can."

_Crack, sluuurp. _Styr finished off the last of his crab before speaking again. He was not a man to be rushed.

"You'll get your gold and your titles and every damn thing you asked for. I'll take care of your king."

"He's not my king," said Grendel frostily.

Styr shrugged. "Suit yourself. Did Acewellan have any strong support?"

"It doesn't matter. The Council will stay their hand. I'll make sure of it."

Styr met his gaze again. "It matters. _Did he have support?_"

Grendel sighed quietly, waving a hand. "Young Lord Gryffindor agreed with him, but the motion was far from passing."

Styr looked genuinely interested at that. "Godric Gryffindor?" he asked curiously.

"Yes…you know the boy?"

Styr took a swig of his beer. "He killed one of my sons."

Grendel blinked. _That_ he found somewhat hard to believe. The young lion was eager for battle, that was clear, but he was hardly raiding the Danish coastline, picking fights with Styr's clan…. "Truly?"

"I just said he did, didn't I? One of my youngers…damn fool went over to compete in some dueling tourney."

"How is it that no one knows of this?"

"Well he didn't bloody well go by his birth name, did he? The gods gave you shit for brains. He forged some papers so he could compete. Went by some British-sounding slop of a name. Brickman or something."

Now Grendel recalled. It had been quite a stir at the dueling tournament, when the young champion Godric Gryffindor was attacked by a disgruntled, defeated opponent. But all agreed the killing had been in self-defense and besides, it wasn't unheard of for a witch or wizard to die in a tourney. But Grendel would never have guessed the slain wizard was a Dane—a son of Styr, no less. "I am sorry to hear that, my lord," he said, ignoring Styr's insults with as much dignity as he could muster.

Styr shrugged his rounded shoulders and waved it off. "He was just a bastard anyways. Got it all in his head he needed to make a name for himself or something…on account of his mother was just a serving wench who says I raped her."

Grendel cleared his throat uncomfortably. Styr had a wife and trueborn sons to his name, but Grendel wouldn't be surprised to find a host of bastards otherwise.

"Well…I shouldn't worry about Lord Gryffindor," he said, trying to change the subject. "He ran off up north to build a school or some nonsense."

Styr looked at him again and he suddenly worried he'd made a mistake and said something to anger Styr. The Dark wizard's eyes were narrowed, his brow knitted together in a frown. "What's this now?"

Why hadn't he kept his mouth shut…now Styr would want to know every bloody detail of Lord Gryffindor's folly. For a man who was so stingy with information, he sure demanded a lot. Grendel sighed heavily as he answered, "Lord Gryffindor has run off to build a school for magic. He tried to gain the Council's support, along with Salvinius Slytherin's son…Lord Ravenclaw's daughter, and some wench from Cymru."

Styr wiped his mouth with one hand, brushing away little bits of cod and smears of butter from his beard. Then he lumbered to his feet. "And what do you mean, he _built _a school—how did he accomplish this?"

Grendel almost rolled his eyes. "I don't know—they had some castle built for them, apparently. Quite fast, too…"

Styr stood by the fire pit for a moment, staring at the flames. The corner of his mouth tugged into the smallest of grins—was that the first time Grendel had ever seen the man smile? He suspected so.

"So _he_ stole my architect."

"Sorry?"

Styr's dark eyes shot back to Grendel. "Do you make your own echo, man? I said he stole my architect. That's the only way they could have accomplished what you say...I could have had a score of siege engines built by now…"

"Do we…need this architect?"

"We could have landed on the shores of Britain and had our own hillfort constructed in a matter of days. Damn that boy. _Damn _that boy…." He took a few paces back towards the table. Styr never lost his temper, never wasted the energy…even now, clearly aggravated by this news, his anger merely bubbled before settling once more. He became thoughtful, stroking his long mustachios.

Grendel asked, "Is he a Dane? Was he sworn to you?"

"No," muse Styr. "No, I found him and I took him so when I needed him, I would know where he was….but he's gone now. I think I'll be seeing Godric Gryffindor after all," he decided. "He killed my kin—the least of my kin, but my kin still…and he's set our invasion back a great deal."

Grendel didn't know anything about this "architect" Styr spoke of. But if he was responsible for the uncannily-fast emergence of Gryffindor's castle, he could possibly have put Sweyn on Aethelred's shores come _this _spring. Grendel pictured the young Godric…a haughty, handsome youth, full of himself…He had proven to be a skilled combatant, but the thought of him face-to-face with Styr pleased Grendel more than he could say. That would send the boy back to his grandfather with his lion tale between his legs—or, more likely, he would be sent back to the Old Lion in pieces. But on the other hand, he had no desire to see Godric Gryffindor come to battle for Aethelred.

"Just leave the damn boy—he's run away to the north. Best he stay there, surely?"

Styr looked back at the fire calmly, his figure rippling gently in the heatwaves that rose from the pit. The fire threw heavy shadows onto his face, and he looked like some gargoyle, some fiery demon in this house of smoke. "We're sure to face him anyways."

"You think he will fight for Aethelred?" asked Grendel with a confused frown.

"Whether he does or not is irrelevant. You think I'm doing this for Sweyn?" He snorted derisively. "With my help, Sweyn will conquer the Britons. And then, with my help, he will die. And then I will conquer the Muggles, and any witch or wizard who does not submit. So whether it's under Aethelred's banners or his own, I will be seeing Godric Gryffindor. And unless you really do have shit for brains, Lord Grendel, you wont be standing next to him."


	14. The First Class

_**Author's Note: **__Thanks so much to everyone who has been reading and reviewing! I'm really happy that people are enjoying the story. This very Hogwartsy chapter is for bridgetothestars tumblr who is awesome and a big supporter of this fic! And an all-around lovely person with a lovely blog :D Enjoy, everyone!_

* * *

><p><strong>AND IN THEIR TRIUMPH DIE<strong>

**chapter fourteen**

**THE FIRST CLASS**

"Evan, come on!"

"I'm coming!"

Evander squirmed off of his bed and hopped on one foot as he pulled on his second boot. Kieran was by the door to the boy's dormitories, waving him on. Val and Catelyn were already in the common room and heading out the door for breakfast. Evander hurried to join Kieran and the two boys made their way towards the Great Hall. They wore the new uniforms that had been provided for them, as they were finer than any clothes they had owned before. They had clean cotton shirts under grey woolen tunics, and wool breeches and supple leather shoes. At their breast was pinned the crest of Gryffindor to designate them as Lord Godric's students.

Godric was waiting in the hall for them, beckoning. "Up, up! You lot are going to miss breakfast!" He mussed Evander's hair as the boy passed, and gave him a playful little push. Evander grinned and flattened his hair again, hurrying after his classmates.

The past year had been a whirlwind of excitement for Evander, and the first week of classes at the castle had been the most exciting of all. He took immense pride in being one of Godric's students….to learn from Lord Gryffindor, celebrated duelist and slayer of Dark Wizards….Evander saw it as a privilege. He dreamed of the day when he himself could compete in tournaments. Earlier, in the spring, he had been permitted to accompany Godric to the Devon Dueling Tournament and serve as his squire. Helga had let him take their small shaggy horse and he got to tend to Godric's mount and his sword and everything. The weather had been pleasant and it was fascinating to see other wizards work at magic. Evander had such little exposure to other magical beings, having spent half his life at Penfryn. There were wizards and witches of all levels of knowledge and prowess at the tourney. Some were fighters like Godric, some were just spectators. There were even a few Muggles present—people from small villages who knew that magic existed in the world and did not shun it.

But none of them could match Godric. He didn't flaunt his talents, Evander noticed, but it was evident to everyone present that he had superior skill and magical knowledge than his competitors. He moved through the rounds easily enough, with only a few opponents giving him trouble. Even though it was just a tourney and spells were highly restricted, Evander marveled at the spellwork he witnessed. He wondered how Godric could seem so calm when suddenly there were bright flashes of light and sharp cracking sounds like splitting trees, all hurtling at him. _I will be that skilled someday, _Evander promised himself. He would learn more than everyone else, just like Godric had. He would practice every day. And he would always remember that tournament, and how the air smelled like earth and horses and mead.

Godric came home with the winner's purse, and poured all of the money into the school. Evander eagerly regaled his stories to Elyssa, Quinn and the others at Penfryn, and they were captivated and jealous. Well, except Faolan. Faolan never seemed to give a fig what Evander had to say, nor Leona much either. But that was all right. Leona was older anyways, and Evander preferred to spend his time with Quinn, or his sister.

He liked his new classmates well enough. Kieran had a good sense of humor and he got along perfectly with Evander and Quinn. And he didn't tease Quinn for being bookish and quiet, which Evander liked. Catelyn was nice, too. She wasn't like Elyssa and Shireen—she seemed to fit in better with the boys. Val was a little quieter, but he was quick to smile.

Before the Great Hall they merged with Helga and her students. Rowena's and Salazar's were already in the Hall. Rowena had her students up early, and Salazar never escorted his students to meals. The Slytherin students always arrived on their own, always on time.

The students mixed and mingled at mealtime; there were only thirteen of them and the hall was so vast, they tended to congregate together near the High Table. Evander slid onto a bench next to Quinn and Kieran slipped in across from them. One of Evander's favorite things about living at Hogwarts was the food. He had always eaten well at Penfryn, since Helga was such a great cook. But at Hogwarts, her cooking was on an even bigger scale. There was always enough for everyone, and there was more room to move your elbows. He missed eating with the house-elves, though.

Today's breakfast consisted of sausages, sweet ham and black bread, eggs and toasted white bread, and assorted fruit drinks. Evander filled his plate with a little of everything amidst the morning chatter.

"Did you practice that charm?" Quinn was asking.

"Tried," said Kieran flatly, spreading jam on his toast.

"I can't keep anything in the air."

Evander furrowed his brow at Quinn. "You can get things in the air at all?"

Quinn moved his shoulders in a small shrug. "A little."

Evander rolled his eyes. "All I managed was to make my quill wiggle."

"Charms aren't first anyways," said Kieran. "It's theory first." He sounded disappointed.

"I like theory," said Quinn brightly.

Kieran stabbed at his eggs and said through a full mouth, "You like _everything._" Evander grinned and Quinn shrugged again.

Theory was a joint class, taught to all the students at once with all four of their mentors present. The students were only separated for classes that involved spellwork, to minimize any risks. After a hearty breakfast, Evander got up with the rest of his classmates and they all migrated out of the Great Hall. They all had to be on time finishing breakfast so that they could catch the staircase that rotated to the proper floor for theory class. It was in a spacious square room on the second floor, always bright and welcoming thanks to the huge windows that lined the far wall. Evander often found himself distracted by the sprawling view of the grounds they had form this room.

There were an assortment of tables in the room, and Evander took his usual seat by Quinn and Kieran. He spotted his sister Elyssa and smiled in greeting. She smiled brightly back from her perch by Shireen.

At the front of the room were their mentors. Rowena stood before them in robes of blue, her black hair gathered up in a bun. Helga stood by her in simple black robes, and Godric and Salazar had perched themselves on a heavy oak table, observing.

"Good morning, students," said Rowena warmly. "Are you ready to review? Let's recite the four basic types of spells. Who can give me the first?"

A few hands went into the air, and Quinn Walsh answered, "Charms."

"Correct. Another?"

Grayson Peverell provided, "Curses."

"Good. And?"

"Jinxes," said Callum Morteir.

"And jinxes are sometimes called what?"

Shireen raised her hand. "Hexes."

Rowena grinned in satisfaction. "Excellent. Charms, curses, and jinxes and hexes. Definitions now. What denotes a charm? Shireen?"

Shireen sat up and answered, "A charm…makes something act differently than is natural."

Rowena nodded. "Yes, that exactly. It makes an object behave in a way that is not natural to that object. For instance…" She pointed her wand to a spare chair by the window, and it began to dance, tapping its four legs against the stone floor. Some of the students giggled in amusement, before the chair rested once more.

Catelyn Leavey sat forward. "Like the hat—the hat is charmed, isn't it?"

Godric grinned and nodded. "Yes it is. It won't shut up now, actually." There was another murmur of laughter.

Rowena proceeded, "Who can describe a curse for me?"

Faolan Burke raised his hand. "A curse is a spell that causes harm to the subject."

"Correct," said Rowena. "What is the difference between a curse and a jinx—or hex?"

There was some hesitation, but after a few moments Kieran answered, "They aren't as harmful as a curse?"

Rowena nodded. "Yes, essentially. Some jinxes are quite damaging, while others do little more than disrupt the subject."

"Such as what?" asked Elyssa, frowning with interest.

"Well, some jinxes can cause real harm," Helga explained. "Like the finger-removing jinx. Others do not leave lasting harm, but are still inconvenient. For instance the…jelly-legs jinx…Godric?" She grinned.

Godric leaned back and shook his head. "No."

"Don't fancy a dance?" Helga asked, tilting her head. Salazar smirked beside him, and some of the students urged Godric on.

"_Nooo_," Godric insisted, shaking his head again. But Evander saw that he was grinning in amusement.

"I'll do it!" said Kieran, raising his hand and grinning broadly. Helga raised her eyebrows.

"You want to see a jelly-legs jinx?"

Kieran nodded and Helga beckoned him up to the front. The boy hopped out of his seat and scurried in front of the class, standing straight with his arms by his sides. "Wait—it doesn't hurt, does it?"

Helga laughed softly. "Only if you fall to the floor, lad." She lifted her wand and Kieran scrunched his face in anticipation, squeezing one eye shut.

"_Locomotor wibbly," _Helga said very clearly. There was a soft cracking sound, and suddenly Kieran's legs were jerking and jaunting all about the place. He looked like a ridiculous marionette puppet Evander had seen in a travelling play once. The students burst with laughter, including Kieran himself, who wobbled aggressively until he fell over. Helga pointed her want at him again and his legs became stationary. Kieran was laughing brightly as he got to his feet.

Rowena looked at the class and gestured to Kieran, who was returning to his seat by Evander. "And what was that called?" Rowena asked, taking the opportunity to teach them more. The laughter quieted as the students pondered, but no one had the answer. "That was a counter-jinx. A counter-jinx ends the effects of a jinx in place.

"Now, what is it that makes a charm a charm, or a curse a curse?" she continued. "It's very important—one of the fundamentals of magic: _intent." _

Evander hadn't ever really thought about that…but he supposed he should have, even with his most basic arsenal of spells. It made sense—you had to know what you wanted to do before you did it.

"The intent of the caster is crucial to the success of the spell, as well as its effects. _Intent and deliberation_."

They listened as Helga and Rowena explained "intent and deliberation," in painful detail, and then moved on to discuss the concepts of familiarity. Evander learned that most spells require the caster to have a line-of-sight to whatever their subject was—until the caster has a certain level of familiarity with an object. Evander wondered if he could eventually learn to summon his wooden sword from his dormitory to the Great Hall….that reminded him that Godric was going to teach swordplay to any of the students who wanted to learn. That made him excited, and he looked out the large arching window to gaze at the sprawling grounds.

After they had discussed some magical theory, Helga took the Ravenclaws and Slytherins out to the greenhouses for Herbology lessons. The Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors remained in the classroom with Rowena to begin Charms practice. Godric and Salazar left the room together, chatting quietly.

The Charms lesson was moderately successful for Evander. He managed to get a quill to hover a foot above the tabletop for more than four seconds. Kieran's feather wobbled feebly in the air before dropping back down. He started getting frustrated, which made his charm less and less effective. Quinn got his feather to float from one table to the other. Kieran shoved him for that, but it was a playful gesture.

"Did you get it?" Elyssa asked her twin, coming over to their table to see the boys' progress.

"Yeah, a little," said Evander. "Did you?" He glanced towards the Hufflepuff group, where Rowena was instructing Marcus Fraer on his wand gesture.

"Yes. But not as well as Quinn and Shireen," said Elyssa.

They spent the morning in classes, and then the students gathered in the Great Hall for lunch. After a refreshing meal, they were back to their studies. Evander and the other Gryffindor students had their potions class with Helga. They sat through a lecture on some common types of potions. Helga was masterful at the art. She had a few examples brewed for them, and while they couldn't witness some of the potions' effects first-hand, they were still fascinating to look at. They were strange, vibrant colors, and one was giving off steam that shimmered prettily in the air. Evander realized he should have known a lot more about potions, having been reared by Helga. She had always made potions for the Muggle villagers—remedies for illnesses or injuries and such. He didn't know that Helga could make so many _other _types of potions.

Then they all had a chance to make their own potion, a simple Calming Draught. It was strangely enjoyable, working with one's hands, seeing the results of just the right combination of ingredients…Evander did fairly well, surprising himself.

After potions, the students had the evening to either work on their studies or spend some time out on the grounds. Evander stopped by the dormitories to get his hood, pulling it over his shoulders and pushing the cowl back so it draped warmly around his neck. The autumn air was growing crisp there in the Highlands, and soon it would be winter. Then he and his companions made the long descent to the castle grounds.

Most of the other students were outside as well, reluctant to go inside and do work. The sprawling grounds were wide and open, the lush green grass slowly turning to russet. They could go to the very edge of the forest, or take a long trek down the sloping lawns to the shimmering loch. Evander's sister Elyssa was sitting in the grass with Shireen; they were talking quietly to one another, watching Callum Mortier, one of Ravenclaw's, and Ianfeld Marques, a Slytherin, shooting sparks at one another with their wands. The boys were laughing, and being a bit showy, in Evander's opinion. He wondered how much they knew about magic, being from pureblooded families. Evander had learned a lot from Helga, but he hadn't lived with her his whole life. He wondered what it would have been like, knowing from birth what he was, and being taught magic as soon as he could hold a wand…but his Muggle parents hadn't understood. When strange things happened around Evander and Elyssa, their parents became frightened of them. Sometimes Evander heard them talking in fearful whispers, worrying that it was the Devil's influence that made Evander and Elyssa so peculiar. Evander became afraid himself. Was he some child of the Devil? Was that why he could make things happen when he was afraid or upset, or exceptionally happy? But after some thought, he decided that that couldn't be true. He didn't even know what the Devil looked like. And besides, Elyssa couldn't possibly be bad.

But their parents had disowned them just the same. When they started showing signs of real magic and not just happy accidents, their father had thrown them out. Their mother had wept, but she didn't do anything to stop it. It rained that first night they were without a home, and Elyssa had cried and cried, but Evander promised her they would be fine. He promised he would find them a home, and he had.

So he watched Callum and Ianfeld with some annoyance and some jealousy. Kieran and Quinn decided to practice one of the charms they had begun working on with Rowena today, so Evander joined them, hoping he could get it right quickly.

It was a basic color-change charm. The boys were huddled in a circle, trying to change the color of a large stone that was nestled in the thick grass. Elyssa, Shireen, Grayson, Marcus, and Aleena were playing a game of chase nearby. After a few minutes of taking turns charming the stone, Evander's attention waned and he found himself gazing at the forest. Though the cloudy sky was bright, the forest still looked dark. He wanted to know what sort of things were in that forest, and wondered if he'd ever see a werewolf, or a unicorn…

"Look! I think I've made it darker…" Kieran declared after a turn at the store.

Callum and Elyssa both approached to peer over the boys' shoulders. "It doesn't look dark," Callum said.

"You didn't see it before!" said Kieran defensively.

"It looks just like every other stone."

But Evander's focus was elsewhere.

"Hey!" he called suddenly. He had just seen something moving beyond the tree line. The others paused to look at him, then at the trees.

"What?" said Kieran.

Evander pointed. "Someone's in the forest…"

Elyssa frowned. "But we're not allowed in the forest."

"Well I just saw someone!"

There was a moment of curious quiet as the others tried to see what Evander had seen. Then Quinn said, "Maybe they don't know we're not allowed…."

Callum shot him a skeptical look. "They told _all _of us we're not allowed in the forest. Everyone knows that."

Evander scowled at Callum's know-it-all tone, but was more interested in the forest than the stupid Ravenclaw. He walked towards the dark, heavy trees, peering through the gloom.

"Evander!" Elyssa called warningly.

Beyond was dense wood and uneven ground. The forest was thick with bracken, tangles of shrubbery, and moss. The trees went on and on until Evander couldn't see through them anymore, and their canopies blocked out daylight. He heard birds chattering, but saw little.

"We should go tell them to come back," said Evander.

"But we can't—Evan!"

Evander stepped over the forest threshold. He would bring back whoever it was—the masters would want them to, wouldn't they? He felt a surge of satisfaction at being the first of them to go into the dark forest, but if he was honest, he didn't want to go in alone. Putting on a brave face, he looked back at his friends as though the mire of trees didn't intimidate him. "Well? Are you coming?"

Kieran glanced at the others, then followed after Evander. "Quinn, come on!" Quinn followed, but looked unhappy about it. Callum squared his shoulders and walked in casually, as though they walked into the forest every day.

Evander looked back at his sister and the others and said, "Stay, we'll return soon." Then he turned and began trudging deeper into the woods. His steps were noisy, crunching on fallen leaves and tangles of nettles.

"Won't we be in trouble?" Quinn asked.

"Only if you don't _tell,"_ said Callum haughtily.

"Shut it," said Evander. He was staring hard at the forest around them, trying to spot the person he had seen. They had been tall…maybe it was Grayson. "Hello!" he called. He got no answer other than the birds.

Quinn asked, "Did you see who it was, Evander?"

"No…" Evander took another slow step forward and glanced over his shoulder. They were only about ten paces in, but it was already heavily shaded. Each step away from the grounds was like pulling against a taut rope that was urging them back. Just those ten paces seemed so far…how far did the forest _go? _How far could they walk before being completely lost? Once, Evander had swum in a deep lake. He had dived down as far as he could, and still all he saw below him was vast darkness. It seemed bottomless—like infinite opportunity. This felt very much the same. Except he didn't need to come back up for air in the forest, there was no natural need to drive him back to safety. He really could get lost here.

The forest had a cloying, earthy smell, a blend of soil and bark and leaves. Here and there an autumn breeze would pass them and add crispness to the air. The boys saw the occasional bird, but nothing else that seemed extraordinary save for the robust plant life. The trees were magnificent, and their roots were thick tangled snakes weaving through the earth and underbrush. Evander didn't know what he expected, but while everything was quiet, he still had a strange feeling in his chest. He still felt that there _was _something extraordinary about this place.

Then there was a sudden flurry above them as a flock of bats swooped out of a tree. They shot low by the boys' heads and flew off deeper into the forest. The boys ducked and swatted above their heads, startled. They quickly jogged a few paces away from where the bats had been, then gave a collective sigh as their shock eased.

"Hell, that scared me…" grumbled Kieran. "Bloody bats…"

"Me too," agreed Quinn, and he gave a nervous laugh.

Then Callum stopped. "Wait, did you hear that?" All four boys halted to listen. There was a far-off noise like a drumming on the earth—a low rumble. It started and stopped softly.

"What was that?"

Evander replied, "I don't know." And he slowly walked on, looking around as they passed the edge of a thicket, where the brush was so thick they couldn't see through. But he stopped suddenly as they entered a tiny clearing.

Evander's heart jumped when he saw him. It wasn't a student, or anyone Evander had ever seen before. It was a man, dressed in a dark grey tunic worn from heavy travel. He had sharp features and a tangled, sandy-colored beard. His eyes met Evander's and they saw each other for but a second before the man turned on the spot and vanished with a _crack. _Evander barely had time to suck in a breath in alarm, and the man was gone before the shot of adrenaline went through him.

Before any of them could react, the rumbling they had heard before suddenly picked up and grew louder. they heard a thundering sound rushing towards them. From the crest of the small hill something huge flew at them. Evander managed a yelp of shock as he scrambled backwards. The enormous black shape hurtled into him, knocking him flat on his back. The others shouted and had likewise dived out of the way.

Standing right where Evander had stood a heartbeat before was a centaur. Its four hooves, almost as wide as dinner plates, were splayed firmly on the earth. Its brawny torso towered over Evander where he lay, and a fierce face looked down at him. He had high cheekbones and his wild black hair was tied back from his face. His coat was a dark, deep brown, almost black, with splashes of white up to his knees on all four legs. In one heavy fist he clutched a long spear, and his shoulders were padded with some sort of toughened hide, like armor. He was ferocious, and Evander's eyes darted to the long spear whose head was half a foot from him. He clutched his wand tightly, but didn't dare raise it for fear of angering the beast.

The centaur noted Evander and then looked around them, frowning. "Damn," he swore in a deep voice. Behind him, more centaurs appeared—two more, three, four, five. They had been looking for the man as well.

The stallion turned his dark eyes back to Evander. "What are foals doing in the forest?" he demanded.

Evander climbed to his feet and was about to answer when suddenly Godric was there, rushing to his side. "Bezric!" he called, holding both hands up in a halting gesture. The centaur took a half step backwards to regard the wizard.

"Godric," he said. "You promised wizards would not come here. We had your word, when you began building your fortress—_the forest would not be disturbed._" His voice was stern and deep. It was not a voice to argue with, and Evander felt quite small. He couldn't help but look at the spear. Its blade was as long as Evander's wand, and it filled him with dread to think of that spear thrusting at Godric. He looked to see that Godric had his wand and was relived to see it cradled under his thumb.

Godric did not lower his hands, but his face was congenial. "Forgive me, friend, we have told the students they aren't to come into the forest." To their right, Evander saw Helga as well, drawing the other three boys to a respectful distance. Evander stuck close to Godric.

The centaur called Bezric snorted, clapping a hoof to the ground. "I don't mean the foals."

Evander blurted out defensively, "There was a man here! I saw him!"

"Quiet," warned Godric, turning his head towards Evander. The boy closed his mouth and averted his eyes. Godric looked back at the centaur.

"A man?" he inquired, lowering his hands.

"Yes, a wizard," said Bezric. Godric looked over at Helga.

She shook her head. "Sal's in the castle."

"If someone else was in this forest, he wasn't from Hogwarts," Godric told Bezric.

The centaur stepped forward. Evander stepped back, quite interested in maintaining a distance between himself and the centaur, but Godric stood firm. Bezric was a whole head taller than him, and completely solid. Evander's brain was in a rush, wondering what spells he could possibly perform if this centaur decided to attack. His wand seemed heavy and clumsy in his hand.

"You built your castle and now there are men in our forest. We had a condition, Lord Gryffindor."

"If a man was in this forest, I can neither control that nor take responsibility for it," said Godric. "If any wizard comes to this forest intending harm, he is a threat to us as well as you, and we would address him with you as your allies."

Helga moved to his side eagerly. "We value the friendship of your herd, Bezric. And we apologize for the behavior of our students," she said. "It wont happen again."

Bezric's dark eyes landed on Evander, who tried not to look away. The centaur's gaze bore down on him, then considered Quinn, Kieran, and Callum. Finally he huffed and scowled at Godric and Helga.

"I will keep my trust in you, Godric and Helga," he said stiffly. He moved his spear upwards into a resting position, and his stallion turned to leave. Then as an afterthought he added more gently, "See that the foals do not trespass again….it is dangerous in the forest." He stepped away from them to join his fellows, and Godric bowed graciously.

"Good health to your herd, Bezric." He took Evander by his upper arm, leading him away. Helga beckoned for the others to come, and they scurried obediently.

Then one of the other centaurs called out, "Lord Gryffindor." Godric stopped and looked back at them. It was a chestnut-colored centaur who had spoken, armed with a longbow. "You should know. Mars swings your way."

Godric was silent for a moment, but then he nodded. Wizards and centaurs turned and moved their separate ways.

The boys were marched along quietly. Evander was burning to tell Godric what he had seen, and to ask him what the chestnut centaur had meant. But he kept his mouth shut. The only thing overpowering his urge to speak was the embarrassment of being in poor graces with Helga and Godric. He felt ashamed, but eager to defend himself as well.

"Rowena will decide how to discipline you," Helga was telling Callum and Quinn as they left the forest behind them. Evander squinted a little at the sudden brightness of the overcast day, now revealed as they left the cover of the trees. "But I should think tonight you'll all be washing the dinnerware for the elves—without magic. Would you agree, Godric?"

"I would," said Lord Gryffindor, looking pointedly at Kieran and Evander. They walked past the other students, who were all enjoying themselves in the yard. They stopped and stared at Evander, Kieran, Quinn, and Callum as they passed. Evander felt heat rise to his cheeks. They walked past the grounds through the east gate of the castle bailey. Well, at least Evander had made the most of his time outdoors…

They reached the main staircase and then Godric stopped them. Facing all four of the boys, he looked at them evenly and asked, "Why did you go into the forest?"

The others looked nervously at Evander. His cheeks flushed hotter, but he answered, "I saw someone in the woods. I thought it was a student, so I went after them. And I asked the others to come with me."

"Did the rest of you see this man?"

They shook their heads. "Just a glimpse, Lord Godric," said Quinn. "Before he Disapparated."

Godric regarded all of them, letting an uncomfortable silence hang before asking, "Do you all understand how dangerous the forest is? And how lucky you are that Bezric did not take greater offense?"

Evander's eyes were fixed on the flagstone beneath his feet. The boys nodded and murmured a few "yes m'lord"'s. After a confirming glance at Helga, Godric nodded. "Go to your dormitories until supper. Evander, you stay a moment."

Evander's stomach dropped. He watched nervously as Kieran and Quinn walked up the staircase. They shot him helpless glances as they left. When they had turned up the second flight of stairs, Evander cautiously looked up at Godric. His face wasn't the laughing, easy face Evander had grown to know, but he did not appear as though he was going to shout at Evander, either. His expression was hard, unreadable.

"Tell me about this man you saw."

Evander glanced between Helga and Godric, who were both looking at him expectantly. "Well…when I first saw him, it was just a shadow…I didn't get a good look, that's why I thought perhaps it was a student…then we ran into him in the forest. It was a man—he was tall, he had dirty clothes and he had a beard…."

"And you did not recognize this man?"

"No, my lord."

"Did he say anything at all?"

"No, my lord. He Disapparated as soon as I saw him."

Godric and Helga met one another's gaze, silent. Evander watched them, anxious as to what they would say to him next. But Godric just jerked his head towards the staircase. "Go on, then. And next time you see anything in the forest, come get one of us. You and Kieran—you'll be in the kitchens after supper."

"Yes, My lord," said Evander hurriedly. He flew up the stairs, eager to rendezvous with Kieran. His friend was waiting for him on the main corridor leading to Gryffindor Tower, and they walked to the portrait door together. Evander told Kieran about his brief exchange with Godric as they went to the dormitory to sit on their respective beds.

"Do you think Godric knows who it was?"

Evander shrugged. "Maybe…he didn't see the man, did he? Maybe it was someone he knew, maybe it wasn't."

"Don't know why he would be in that ruddy forest though…" Kieran sighed and flopped onto his back across his bed. "I hope no one's hungry tonight. I don't want to wash all of those plates. And we'll have to be with that Callum, too…I don't much like him."

Right, Evander had almost forgotten…he sighed heavily and looked out the paned window by his bed. His head was still buzzing with all they had seen—_centaurs_, for one! Something he'd only ever dreamt and heard rumors of…and then the stranger. Who had he been? What was he doing in the middle of the Highlands? Evander could see an ocean of trees from his view, and he sat there until suppertime, wondering about the man in the forest.


End file.
